


wine gums in the winter

by BelieveMePlease



Category: Rugby RPF, Rugby Union RPF
Genre: Angst, Enemies to Lovers, Friends to Lovers, Getting Together, M/M, Slow Burn, but not really
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-23
Updated: 2019-08-31
Packaged: 2019-11-04 11:36:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 19
Words: 103,607
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17897705
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BelieveMePlease/pseuds/BelieveMePlease
Summary: "When you're walking to school together eating a bag of wine gums, or whatever it is, it's a bit different to preparing for a test match."





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I wasn't going to post this just yet, but after the result today I thought it might be fitting for commiserations/celebrations (if there happens to be any Wales fans reading, congratulations)  
> ~  
> This begins at the pre-Autumn Internationals training camp in October.

When George gets to the training camp in Bristol, it's raining.

The drive down had been almost entirely bright and pleasant: sunglasses on, air-conditioning blasting, summer playlist still blaring as he, and everyone else in the country, ignores the shortening October days. It was only when he'd reached about sixty miles south of Birmingham that the rain had started to come down. The little drizzly showers near Swindon had been fine, but the hammering showers that began to pound as he reached the northern border of his destined city were not a welcome sight. George had forgotten just how much it likes to rain in the west country.

Killing a little more time sitting in the car, waiting to see if the downpour will let up a little, George checks his phone, reads over the messages he's missed since his last service stop. There are a couple from Ben and Jonny both saying they'd arrived. Ben had sent another about twenty minutes after the first telling him to hurry up and save them from the throws of the Saracens that apparently make up half the team. Bit of an exaggeration considering just how many of them George knows are injured, but it makes him grin in anticipation; he can't deny that he's missed the little club rivalries that come with international training.

With a sigh, and no sign of the rain easing, George forces himself out the car, legs it in the direction of the main entrance. He spends almost ten minutes being checked in at the front desk, now thoroughly soaked, hair dripping unapologetically onto the mahogany as he impatiently gives over details as and when they're needed. All this just to be told his allocated room isn't yet ready, same as many others apparently. George has to bite back a threatening growl of agitation at the poor receptionist -it's not her fault, he reminds himself. Not a great start to camp either.

Everyone else seems to be gathered in one of the front lounges of the hotel, if the noise George could hear all the way from the reception desk is anything to go by. He drops his damp suitcase in the corner when he walks in, spots both Ben and Jonny on one of the farthest corners, Lozowski and Jamie George sat in chairs facing them -a nice, if rather unconventional for so early on in a camp, little group to settle in with.

"This what you meant by 'half the bloody team is made up those smug Sarries bastards', then?" George laughs gesturing to the mere two Saracens players as he leans in over the back of the sofa near to Ben's ear. Ben startles sufficiently hilariously at being snuck up on, hand clasping over his heart in a typically over exaggerated reaction.

"Oi!" Jamie gasps, light-heartedly offended smile coupling the frown that creases into his brow as he glares teasingly at where Ben is still sat shocked. "That what you been saying behind our backs?"

George grins, making his way round to flop down on the sofa next to his teammate as he blunders aimlessly for a reply.

"You should've seen the rest of the message, Jinks," George continues when it becomes apparent Ben can't find anything to say. "Practically begging me to drive faster so I could come and save him from your lot, I thought I'd be faced with a lot more than just the two of you."

"I was not begging!" Ben finally manages to splurge, whacking George on the arm for good measure.

"There were more of them earlier to be fair, mate," Jonny supplies in defence.

"What? Pearl?" Lozowski interjects with a laugh, "Because you really need saving from sweet little Maro."

"Little?" George chokes on an out breath at the insinuation. They were talking about the same bloke, right? "Pretty sure he could put me on the fucking ceiling if he wanted."

"Anyone could put you on the ceiling, Fordy," Ben sends him a sarcastic flash of teeth, quirks his head up towards said ceiling to emphasise the point.

"Coming from you!" George practically yelps, undignified. It earns him a hearty chorus of laughter from the rest of the group and that sets a warm, comfortable feeling inside of him. This is nice, this is just what he's been missing.

"Anyway, there's more of you than that," Ben carries on where they'd left off before, ignores George's friendly jibe entirely. "Don't think I don't know there's more of you lot on their way, and Faz is already lurking about here somewhere."

Something in George jolts at the mention of that name, mention of Owen, a pestering longing settling its way into his gut at the prospect that he's around somewhere. They've texted over the summer, sure, just as they always do -as they have done for the last, God only cares to count, how many years- but, same as always, those long winded, paragraph worthy conversations have already started to peter out with the onslaught of the early season.

That's what it always is at the beginning of these camps, when they haven't seen each other in a while; a longing for a bit more than a friendly message of congratulations after a win, or commiseration at a loss. It's a friendship he's used to missing out on, just as he is with any of the other non-Leicester players he gets on with in camp.

"Gossiping about me?"

George jumps in a way far too similar to the way Ben had only minutes before for it not to be embarrassing, feels his cheeks tint as he realises it, as he registers the laughter it causes.

He looks up at the cause of his surprise, deep frown already set on his face as he readies himself to scold whoever it is. When he's met with the all too familiar cocky smirk of Owen Farrell, however, he can't help the way it falters.

"Yeah, just discussing your shit drop goal percentages, mate," Jonny steps in with immediate teasing before George can even find the words for a greeting. "You gonna work on that this Autumn, or?"

Owen settles a hand onto George's shoulder, flashes a grin over to where the winger is sat just a couple of spaces away. "Missed you too, Jonny."

There's a brief pause before the others carry on chatting between them as Owen drags his gaze back to where George is peering up at him, mouth still hanging slightly open as his brain tries to catch up with something to say. _Words,_ right.

"Hi Georgie," the hand on his shoulder trails up to the base of George's skull, catching any possible sounds in George's throat once again. The sensation only lasts a second before it's gone, but George's eyes flutter at the feeling of it, at the sound of a nickname he didn't realise he'd been missing over the past months.

"Hi," George finally manages to mumble back, only flinching slightly as Owen launches himself over the back of the sofa to land in the too-small spot left at the end.

George winces when Owen's leg catches on his own thigh, cushioning most of his weight in landing there instead of where it should. Owen replaces it with his hand as soon as he's set himself right, runs it down the pane of George's quad in a silent apology. And George really isn't ready for this yet; for the tactile insinuations and implications that he's taunted with every time they're so much as near each other. He's only been hear twenty minutes, for crying out loud.

"Do I get a hug?" Owen asks once he's settled, loud and intrusive -enough for the rest of the group to start paying attention to them again- filling the gap George had left with his lack of follow-up to their greeting. 

It's playful, it's just teasing, just banter and it cuts that clear line of differentiation between their friendship and those with others on the team. But George can sense the sharp flirtatious bourn around the edges, there the same as every time, every camp, every tour. Unusual that it's right off the bat this time, that Owen is already firing up this -whatever it is- when they've barely said two words to each other. No, George thinks, he's really not ready.

He rolls his eyes, taking in Owen's teasingly expectant smile before he relents, all but falls into Owen's arms where they're opened out to him. He tries to make the way his head sinks into Owen's neck, the way he breaths him in, as subtle as he can.

"Don't I get one?" Jamie pipes up loudly as they break apart. It's a much needed interruption, George knows, stops him getting sucked in to a gaze he's not sure he'd be able to break. Best if he doesn't make himself too obvious on the very first day.

"Yeah, where's my hug, Faz?" Lozowski sounds equally as mock-offended as Jamie did and it pulls Owen in easily, pulls him out of their delicate bubble and into the brutish familiarity of his club mates.

"You can't have me all the time, sorry lads," Owen smirks, leans back away from George to stretch out gloatingly in the corner. He bumps his knee against George's where they're pressing a little too close together on a sofa that's filled passed its capacity. "Gotta share me while this one's around."

It's things like that which often have George convinced that Owen must know something up, must understand whatever these things are that he feels and can't even comprehend himself. He's so harmlessly teasing, so friendly with it that it almost feels like a gentle brush off while simultaneously meant to indulge his fancy.

They're called out for an afternoon training session then, coaches making the most of the limited time they have while the rain has stopped. Honestly, George is rather glad for it. As much as he wants to catch up with Owen, is looking forward to it, he doesn't want to have to deal with swathes of inconspicuous emotions it will inevitably, is somewhat already dragging out of whatever hidden corners he's managed to tuck them into over their time apart in front of his or Owen's teammates.

Owen simply shrugs unhelpfully when George sends him a look he hopes conveys his desires for a more private conversation later. Hopeful is all he can be, then.

He leaves Owen behind with his own teammates in favour of falling into step with Ben as they make their way out to the pitches. It's far easier to catch up with someone he saw only this morning, someone he's pretty sure he hates more than he actually likes half the time.

They're split simply into forwards and backs for the session, not much they can really do in the way of integrated training while so many players have yet to arrive. It's easier this way, slotting back into familiarity with Owen in a way they've grown to be far more accustomed, professionalism above all else. George half resents it being this way, blames the blurred lines they're constantly crossing between friends, teammates, even rivals, for his toil in understanding the true bounds of their relationship. Although he can't deny it is more easing than the unsteady attempts at banter they'd otherwise inevitably use in order to reacquaint.

Aside from this, it's nice just being back on a pitch, too. Not in the sense that he hadn't literally played a match just days before, but just having the set up he doesn't get while at Leicester. Sure, he's got Ben as his halfback partner and Jonny on his wing, but it's nice to have Owen at his centre, Elliot hanging round at fullback. The players might chop and change now and then over the seasons, but it's a format he finds himself quite comfortable in, has done for a good couple of years, one he hopes can prevail over the coming season.

As nice as it is, though, they do only get to make a few hours of it. The pitches are still pretty sodden from the earlier downpour and it makes for a whole bunch of proficiently muddy rugby players by the end of just a handful of drills. At least they don't fair as bad as the forwards.

After showers all round, they settle down for the typical team meal to open the camp, catch up properly, greet any uncapped players. It's a novelty George has always enjoyed, although this one doesn't quite feel to live up to the same standards of some in the past -it's rather empty with many players not due to arrive until tomorrow, bound by club commitments, and this camp is only for a few days.

Perhaps because of this, perhaps because such a quick turnaround into international training from club games just days before is so tiring, it clears up pretty quickly after dinner. Some of the lads retire for an early night, while others gather in the lounge for a few games and a gossip. Both are equally appealing and unappealing enough for George to feel torn, reckons that's how he ends up out on the patio with the two very players he sees far too much of.

"Well I think I'm gonna head in," George re-attunes to the conversation that had been sparse enough to mostly ignore in favour of absorbing the lasts of the sunlight, recognises as Jonny moves to stand.

"Yeah, I'll join you," Ben stands also in reply. "Getting a bit nippy, to be honest." They both turn to focus their attentions on George, who has remained intentionally unmoving. "George?"

George groans quietly. Sensible enough to be adorning a light-weight jumper, he's not really feeling the cold, and the ruckuses that are loud enough to be heard all the way from the lounge are not exactly drawing him in. He supposes he could turn in for the night, not so keen on being left outside all alone.

"Yeah, okay," he concedes after a moments' pause to muse over his deliberations, moves to stand and join his teammates, the patio doors open, noise from the lounge suddenly increasing in volume, dying away once they're closed again. George looks up upon sound of it, checks the causation.

It's Owen, heading towards the trio with a tight greeting smile, hands shoved into the pockets of his trackies, shoulders hunched slightly forwards. Maybe it's just from the chill, but he looks so different from earlier, the endless exuding of teasing confidence replaced with a timid humility -this is an Owen George wants to see.

"Alright?" He greets, voice low, quiet -he really is subdued. George wonders briefly if he's had a drink, but, no, not when camp is so short, the coaches wouldn't afford it. Maybe just be tired, then.

"Alright, mate?" Jonny replies, "We were just gonna head inside actually, sorry to-" he gestures vaguely, probably not really knowing what he wants to convey. Ben lets out a little snort at the ridiculousness of the action.

"Oh, no that's okay," Owen looks down to his shoes for a moment, scuffs the ground with one of the soles before looking up, fixing George with a look. It's the first time he's focused on him since their first greeting earlier in the day, not just communicated through a wider group. George feels himself vacillate a little under the intensity, not quite sure where to set his gaze. "You going too?"

George shrugs, wills himself not to redden at the attention suddenly so concentrated on him. He looks up to Owen, tries a lopsided smile. "I can hang around."

The others clear off quickly after that, leaving the two friends to settle into the less than desirable patio furniture. Quiet take over for long moments, both sneaking small glances at the other, smiling shying when they're caught be the other. It's about a million miles from how they'd greeted each other just hours earlier -George had thought he'd rather they be alone, but now it just feels awkward.

"Hi," Owen eventually tries, smiling coyly after George ducks his head with a bashful exhale, not quite enough to constitute a laugh.

"Hi," George returns dutifully. It's a bit formal, a little tense, but it's a start. "You alright?"

"Yeah not bad," Owen shrugs, leaves it hanging there. _Helpful,_ George thinks somewhat bitterly, readies himself to speak again, just as Owen does. "Good summer?"

"It was alright, yeah," George honestly struggles to think of something to say that Owen doesn't already know. They'd texted a lot over the offseason, probably even more than is usual for them. Perhaps that's why it feels so wrong that they're struggling to communicate now. "Spent a lot of time with my family," he eventually settles for, even though Owen already knows. "You?"

"Eh," Owen shrugs, smile growing a little as he considers his reply, shoulders loosening visibly. "It was... uneventful."

"Yeah, okay, Mr Co-skipper," George barks around a laugh, grin forming to match Owen's own.

"Shh," Owen scolds gently, although he's clearly finding it hard to control a genuine _beam._ "No one is meant to know that yet - _you're_ not meant to know that yet." He drops his expression into something that could be considered serious, just for a second, "You haven't told anyone, right? Not Ben?"

"Please," George snorts, offended at the mere suggestion. "You really think I'm gonna tell that blabber-mouth any secrets?"

"Well," Owen leans forward, elbows on his knees. He looks fully relaxed now, comfortable in the swing of their conversation. This is more like it, George thinks. "I think he might already know a few," he points out.

"Just a couple," George smiles wryly at the obvious allusion, heaves one shoulder in a move to let Owen know that it's okay to talk about it openly, that he's not worried they'll be someone to overhear.

"Speaking of," Owen starts, unsubtle delve to bring the topic up making George's lips twitch upwards in the corner. "Anything to report on that front? No lads I need to warn off from breaking your heart?"

"Nah," George stretches backwards, arches his spine over the backrest of the chair, lets himself seem casual enough despite the way his heart thuds. "I've been a single pringle recently, enjoying the freedom. What about you? Any lads or lasses I need to warn off from breaking _your_ heart?"

Owen positively cackles as the line is thrown back in his face. "Afraid not, no," he manages once the laughter has died down. George hates the way his chest physically loosens in relief. "Had a bit of a fling with a guy after South Africa, I think just to make myself feel better, didn't see it going anywhere. That's -oh and shagged a girl on holiday as well- but, uh, that's about it really."

"Pleasant," George crinkles his nose teasingly, lets out a short laugh when Owen shoves him on the arm.  

"It was actually, as it goes," Owen chimes happily, but doesn't appear to have anything to follow it up with. George lets it fall silent for a moment, considers it; it's comfortable enough, no obvious need for it to be filled as there had been before, but no, he decides, he doesn't like it.

"So," the word is drawn out, immediately implicating him as just trying to fill the gap. Owen doesn't seem to mind, though, lets his attention fall back on George from where it had been wondering off in the silence. "You enjoying it too? The freedom of single life."

He takes a moment, considering, "Not really," Owen admits eventually. "I mean, it's not bad, I suppose, got no real complaints, but- well you know me, I sort of like being tied down with someone."

"Kind of breaking the bisexual stereotype there, _greedy,_ " George chiacks, relishes in the laugh it draws from Owen. "Are you-" George stutters as he realises what he's about to ask, what direction the conversation is going in, sets himself to go on, "are you looking for something, then?"

"Not really looking, I don't think," Owen hums, "To be honest, I don't think I've ever actually looked, just let it happen when it does, y'know?"

"Alright, no need to boast," George rolls his eyes playfully. "We can't all be relationship aficionados."   

"I don't mean it like that," Owen grins, looks a little smug with the backhanded compliment, "I just mean- well, you know it's not exactly easy to look for someone when we're doing all of," he gestures wildly at the general vicinity, " _this_ all the time."

"So you don't like being single, but you're not going to look for a relationship?" George checks.

"Basically," Owen chuckles lightly, "Guess we'll just have to be lonely singletons together." He quirks an eyebrow slightly around a lazy smirk. George tries not to lose his head on just whatever _that_ might mean, on what he knows it doesn't mean, what it never means.

"Lonely? Speak for yourself." George coughs lightly, covers the way his voice wavers.  

"Seriously, though?" Owen turns slightly in his seat, fixes himself so he can look at George fully, properly. "Don't you kind of wish something would just, like, come to you?"

"Well, sure, I guess," George shrugs, shudders under the intensity of Owen's pointed expression. "But- like you said- there's not exactly many love prospects floating around in places like this. I dunno, I sort of doubt that anything is just going to fall at my feet and -again, like you said- it's not like we really have the time to look."

Owen turns his head away, looks out over the pitches the patio faces onto, to where the sun is steadily starting to set. With the ferocity of his gaze averted, George finally feels like he can breathe again. "Be nice if we didn't have to look, though, don't you think? Like, I dunno, if there was already something, someone around who -I dunno."

There's a long, agonising pause then. George battles not to let his mouth fall open unthinkingly, splurge out some ridiculous, unconsidered reply just to fill the space.

"Yeah," George concedes eventually, dumbly. There's not much else he can think to say and he doesn't want to try and decipher what Owen's trying to imply, if anything at all; he's spent enough years getting crushed by his own hopeless assumptions. "I think- yeah I do."

The doors open again then, the flood of sound, although quieter now, spilling out to them and cracking through the delicate chimera their isolation had provided them.

George looks over, ready to glare at whoever has destroyed the possibility of Owen continuing. Or maybe he should be thankful, maybe he wouldn't have liked where things were going.

It's Zach, leaning up against the outer wall of the hotel, phone poised in hand as though he's readying himself to make a call, paying the pair of them no mind. He doesn't even appear to have noticed them.

"Alright kiddo?" George calls over to him, starting to welcome the relief from a conversation he hadn't realised had become stifling. And- he likes Zach, hasn't spoken to him properly since leaving Bath a little over a year ago when the kid had barely been older than the youngsters on the United team.

"Oh, hi," Zach looks up, clearly a little startled to see them. "Sorry, I didn't -I'll go."

"No, it's okay," Owen speaks up suddenly. He hasn't looked away from where he's staring off into the distance, his expression unmoving, unreadable. "I ought to be heading in anyway really, think Eddie wants a word before I turn in."

"Faz," George tries gently as Owen stands, but it comes out as more of a farewell than anything else and he doesn't have anything to follow it up with anyway, is uselessly silent as Owen makes to walk away.

"I'll catch you tomorrow, mate."

And that, well it stings. It always stings, that name, so generic, so brutally friendly, so crushing to George's projections. All George can do is stare, stricken, as Owen slips away.

"You okay, Fordy?" George hums upon hearing the question, struggles to tear his eyes away from the line of sight Owen has long since disappeared from to where Zach is pondering him, worried.

George smiles wryly, forcefully, "Yeah," he sighs, deflated, sinking back in his seat. He uses his left foot to weakly nudge the chair Owen has only just abandoned towards Zach.

"Come on then," George invites. "How've you been?"   


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Set during the first England training camp in Portugal, before the autumn tests. Leicester lose away to Saracens 29-21.

In Portugal, George is lucky enough to have two Saracens for housemates. Apparently, each villa was intended to be made up of four different players from four different clubs, supposed to break the bounds of all the contradicting Premiership systems they're coming in from, but the sheer amount of Saracens on the team means some of them have doubled up.

Itoje and Kruis are nice enough guys, and they have their Bath newbie, Cokanasiga, to look after between them; George can even deal with feeling like the smallest person on the planet when he's around the three of them. What is annoying, though, is the makeshift Saracens clubhouse their living room has turned into over the course of training thanks to the duo of giants he has to share it with.

It's Saturday, their last weekend in camp before they head home, and they've been afforded the majority of the afternoon off, only a  selection of meetings later in the day. It's under the guise of 'rest and recuperation', although George is pretty certain it's just the coaches trying to avoid nigh on half the team being grumpy at missing this afternoon's match.

The Saracens-Leicester game is due to kick off in just under half an hour, the build-up already having started, and George is still tucked away, hiding in his bedroom as he listens to his living room steadily become more and more rowdy. Of course it'd be his villa that gets chosen as the Sarries' personal cinema.

He's already had a string of increasingly frustrated messages from Ben asking where he is, but the prospect of walking through the pack of wolves to get to the front door is becoming an increasingly meaner feat. Unable to avoid it any longer, George makes a break for it, head down, no eye-contact, no acknowledgement.

Yeah, that would've been too good to be true.

"Fordy!" Comes the chorus of calls, intermittent like an echo, the second he steps foot in the open-plan space. _Great._

"Where you off too?" George can just about decipher Maro's question over the noise the mantra of his name is still creating, over the TV and the players already yelling retaliations to the punditry. "Aren't you gonna watch the game?"

George stares at him for a moment, wonders if he's actually _so_ nice that he believes that would ever work or if he's gone completely mad. "Yeah," George lets out a huff of nervous laughter, "round at Ben's."

There comes a howling round of complaints at his reply, none of them particularly intelligible, but the notion that his rivalling team would want him watching their game with them is enough to make George rhapsodic -this is why he adores International training.

"No mate!" Kruis protests, "Just watch it here."

"With you lot?" George can't think of anything worse. "Ben would actually murder me."

Most of the rest of the team, who aren't his housemates, seem satisfied enough to leave him alone after that answer. George guesses that, as much as they don't seem to mind the idea of him staying, they probably see it as about as strange of a suggestion as he does, even Maro and Kruis were likely just trying to be nice.

"Come on, Georgie," this one is quieter, not said immediately close to George, barely said with enough tenor not to get lost under the endless sub-conversations now occurring beyond this one. George almost doesn't catch it, but the regrettable nickname is hard to miss, the familiar Mancunian hue even harder. "Watch it with us."

It still takes George another moment to find Owen amongst the group -God, there actually are _loads_ of them. He's one of the one's demoted to the floor, sat down beside the far end of the sofa furthest from where George is stood, legs crossed but held up around the knees in the crooks of his elbows. His hair is slightly wet from his post-training shower after lunch, a few drips dribbling onto the shoulders of his Saracens Nike t-shirt. He's smiling at George softly, genuinely, not a hint of the teasing he usually gets when they're around the other lads; there's a whole room of people between them and yet it's as though they're all alone. It's almost enough to sway George into staying. Almost.

"I really can't," he finally admits, directs it straight towards Owen, losing the sarcastic, half-jokey tone he'd been using with the rest of the lads, hopes to convey that he would if he could.

They've become closer again since Bristol, their texts picking back up close to where they'd been in the summer. It had been less than two weeks later that the team had flown to Portugal, but George thinks it's more than they've managed mid-season since he was eighteen, and while they've stayed good mates in the years since, really good mates, even, during tours and camps, this feels as though it has the glimmerings of reigniting into an actual bond they haven't shared in years.     

He blinks when he realises a few members of the rest of the group are now staring at him expectantly, flusters when he realises quite how long he's let the pause go on, how long he's been looking at Owen. Readdressing the group, he lets the softness he'd let himself reside to fall away and injects his tone with teasing competitiveness. "Good luck though, lads, you're gonna need it."

That earns him another chorus, this one a round of jeers, remarks playfully snide enough to make him laugh. He leaves one last weak shrug in Owen's direction, not enough to counter the disappointed smile on his friend's face as he slips away from the group and out the door.

~~~~~

They lose, and it sucks. Expected, away at Allianz Park often is, but it doesn't make it less painful. George winces when he catches the flickering of poorly hidden despondency on his brother's face as the camera trails his journey down the handshake line. His heart aches for him, especially when he'd played so well. It aches for all his team, missing out on a losing bonus by just two points in such a tough match -his empathy could hardly be stronger.

"Well that was shit," Ben huffs, flicking the TV off. He doesn't ask if any of them want to watch the post-match media, doesn't need to.

"Yeah, how about we don't talk about _that,_ " Jonny mumbles, clearly referring to the whole match in question. George reckons that's probably a good idea. There were a few moments they'd all been pretty vocal about as they had happened, if they sink into actual discussion now it'll only get heated and fiery -even if they're all agreeing.

"Good idea," George lets his agreement be known, begins to regret it when they fall into long moments of uncomfortable silence, all stewing in their thoughts. "Mind if I hang here before the meetings?" George directs to Ben, a genuine request as much as a method to fill the silence. "Don't think I want to head back to the Sarries den after this."

"Whatever's fine, mate," Ben offers, looks ponderous for a moment as though he has something else to say and George stares at him hopefully, but eventually he sinks back down without another word. It's all George can do not to groan aloud.

They sit there, none of them speaking or even moving beyond playing with their own fingernails. It's agonising, thoughts firing around George's brain about the game, no outlet as his eyes bore into the plain white of the wall. It doesn't take long to become unbearable.

"You wanna talk about it?" George finally breaks.

"Yep!" Jonny flings himself up out of his slouch, instantly agreeable as he settles himself in to ignore his own initial suggestion. "Why the fuck would-"

The rest of the afternoon, limited though it is, becomes a long, disquieting analysis of the match. They comb over every detail they can think of, discuss and debate and argue over everything: discountenancing individual performances all the way through to tactics and game management. It carries them through until George is messaged, indicating his call to a meeting, although he's itchy and agitated the whole walk there. Fair to say they should have stuck to not talking about it.

It's just him waiting when he gets to Eddie's makeshift office, no one else sitting in with him, getting the same news. George really isn't sure if an individual meeting is a good or bad thing at this point. He'd been called up alone when Eddie had asked him to co-captain the Barbarians' game, but equally it had been the same set up when he was told he'd sit out of the last test in South Africa. It's strange how the exact same thing can prelude two such different outcomes; George refuses get his hopes up, doesn't let them be crushed either.

He only has to wait a few minutes for the door to open, to be ushered inside, to sit and slump forlornly as he listens to his coach. _Playing a more physical team_ , Eddie says, _in light of Springbok tactics in the summer_ , he justifies. George can do nought else but nod along. _Seeing how Farrell's co-captaincy couples with the leadership of fly half._ George bites his lip, refuses to wince.

Of course Owen would be brought directly into this, there's no point trying to pretend it's something it isn't, that it isn't one of them purposefully being replaced by the other. It's a stark reminder to George of what they really are, of what they've been since his first senior England selection -rivals.

 _Will be one of the finishers._ It's better than being dropped, better than the last match in South Africa. _Want to see what impact you can make off the bench._ George struggles to hold back bitter laughter. It's almost as though he's not the only fly half cover, as though they actually want him there rather than inserting him out of necessity in case anything happens to Owen. There's no Cipriani sized smokescreen to hide it behind this time.

"Thank you, George," Eddie leans across his desk to shake his hand as they finish up. George takes it dismally, hates that he can't help respecting every decision Eddie makes even if he despises some of them. "I hope still to see you at your best when we get back to training next week."

It's unapologetic, always is with Eddie, every thought and choice so precisely substantiated that it leaves no room, no need for reparation.

"Of course," George assures. He doesn't thank his coach, doesn't feel he should have to, and it's seemingly accepted well enough as he's nodded away in dismissal with a knowing smile that shouldn't get under George's skin quite as much as it does.

George heads back to his own villa, considers retreating back to Ben's to avoid any celebrating Saracens left over in his living room, but he's not sure he wants to answer the slightly too intrusive questions his friend will inevitably ask about the details of his meeting and the call of his bed, the privacy to mope, is starting to become too strong to ignore.

Thankfully, most of them have emigrated into the kitchen, presumably where the flagrant alcohol is, if the obstreperous noise is anything to go by. George smiles at the few stragglers left on the sofas in a silent greeting as he hurries past. Jamie smirks back, opens his mouth as though he's about to remark, to mention something about the match. George groans internally.

"Good game, mate," it's simple enough, but there's a fiery mocking behind it that the competitor in George would normally find too hard to ignore.

"Yeah, congrats." George sighs, feels too deflated to retaliate as he usually would. All he wants is to curl up in his bed and phone his mum.

The door to the kitchen opens then, a few more of the team pouring back into the room. His housemates seem happy enough to begin an instant tirade of torment, while Richard is happy enough to fix him with an, albeit smug, smile before joining Jamie on the sofa, leaving him alone. George has to bite the inside of his cheek as he grins back at Kruis' latest gloat. There's a heavy weight slowly sinking its way into the pit of his stomach and George is becoming increasingly worried he won't be able to catch it before it spills.

It's the hand grazing the small of his back that's the last straw. The mixture of concerned condolence and gleeful arrogance he's faced with as he turns to observe Owen's expression, as though he doesn't quite know which is appropriate, causes something to snap. It takes just about every ounce of effort in George not to let himself explode into uncensored rage or collapse into a heap on the floor.

"Tired," he manages to squeak out at the silent question in the cock of Owen's head. His voice shakes around the word, barely able to maintain the first syllable. It's too much, and George dreads to think the embarrassment of what'll happen if he stays, so he scuttles, beelines in the direction of his bedroom.

Safe and alone in his solitude, George can finally relax just a little. It doesn't help much, with the fear factor of making a fool of himself ceased the bite of tears start to sting behind his eyes. He takes a few deep breaths, lets it all wash over him as he flops down onto his bed. Crying won't change matters, will only deplete the steadily lowering respect he has for himself even further.

George had been so sure things were going well, that he was proving himself in training, in club games, as club captain; proving that he deserves a chance to redeem himself. After being dropped at the end of the last season, he had promised himself that he would come back and make an impact, assert himself, make a point that he was intrinsic, _essential_ in the team. Maybe he's back in the match-day squad, but in the twenty-two jersey rather than the ten? George can't help but feel he's broken that promise.

When the knock on the door comes, he's just finished composing a text to Joe, solidarity in commiseration. He ignores it, opens up his mum's contact on his phone.

The second knock comes just as he's hovering over the call button, gearing himself up, stamping down the emotion as best he can before he does it.

He sighs, "Yeah, Owen?" He calls out, no question as to who it is, probably the only person George is willing to see right now, to let see himself as he is. The door unlatches, shuts again as Owen stands just inside it, unmoving, unspeaking.

Owen finally makes his way over after long, painful moments of silence between them, perches at the end of the mattress, keeping the distance between them.

"Tough loss," Owen yields, consolation far too rife not to scream its double meaning.

George takes a second to consider it. He hadn't contemplated that Owen might already know until now. Maybe he should have, but maybe his notion of Owen as his childhood best friend still runs too deep for George to ever naturally assume he'd have kept the secret.

"Which one?" George tries, can't help but hope for a response of confusion.

"Both," Owen admits after only a brief pause. George's head drops, defeated.

"When did you-?" George doesn't finish the question, his voice dropping off halfway through. He feels pathetic and knows he sounds it. He coughs, forces himself look up straight into Owen's gaze, readies himself to finish. Owen beats him to it.

"This morning," he supplies. George nods, lets it hang there for several seconds, not sure of how to reply. Normally filled with an anxious, desperate need to fill quiet spaces, George can't even be bothered to try and form a one word response. The pause is awkward, though, likely Owen senses it as he makes to continue. "I'm sorry I didn't-"

"No," George cuts him off quickly, moves to hold a look into his eyes, wants to ensure his sincerity is perceived. Owen shouldn't have to apologise for doing his job, for playing by the rules; George never would. "I know you couldn't- you don't have to... -it's fine."

It's Owen's turn to nod mutely, but he's smiling, relief more than happiness, but George concedes that it's better than nothing.

"Guess I should say congrats, though," George bites his lip. It stings a bit to actually say it, but he knows it's what he should do.

"Hey," Owen's smile falters a little, looks at George seriously, "You don't have to either, you know?"

"No really, Faz." George insists, reassures with a smile of his own, hopes it at least looks more convincing than it feels. "I know, but- congrats. You must be excited, even if you are nicking my jersey off me."

The responding laughter is kind of restrained, not quite the easy laxity their recent growth in re-familiarisation has allowed for, but it's open enough.

"Just taking back what's mine," Owen jokes, studies George carefully as it lands, allows enough of a pause to gauge the reaction. George can't help but snigger lightly, he supposes that's probably fair. "You stole it from me first, remember?"

"Well, I only nudged you out a few paces," George points out, "I'm all the way down to the bench thanks to you."

This one falls a little flat, probably should have been expected. Perhaps it was too brutally honest, perhaps it does highlight how much of a rift this has the potential to cause. Maybe that's exactly why it needs to be said, why they need to joke about it.

"Not for long, though," Owen's retreated back into an uncomfortable seriousness, George almost wants groan at the weight of it. "I'm sure it's just a bit of early season jumbling."

"I'll hold you to that," George warns, fierce enough to show he means it, jovial enough to make Owen laugh as he points a finger in his direction, leans forward to poke it into Owen's chest.

"Don't worry, I'm pretty confident," Owen rolls his eyes playfully. "You're playing too well at the moment for Eddie to want to keep you from starting for long."

"Best fly half in the Prem, some might say," George grins, sinking genuinely into the contented interaction. "Or do you still have me beat on that too?"

"I'm not sure I do, but your brother might. Those were some pretty impressive penalty kicks today." Owen says.

"Yeah, he played well," George agrees. "Think he's a bit cut up over the loss, though," George glances over to where he'd dropped his phone, where it remains silent and blank. "He's ignoring me."

"Like you wouldn't do the same," Owen chides. George fixes him with a look, although he's not wrong, it's not like he wouldn't, like he hasn't. "Can't say I blame him, it was a close loss. I thought you might've had us pipped a couple of times."

"Did you really?" George asks, sarcastic and unbelieving. Owen's not one to admit defeat, not so easily, not until long after the match has actually ended, until he absolutely has to.  

"Well not that I admitted out loud," he laughs lightly, eyes crinkling at the sides. George can't help but mirror it. "Think the lads would've let me get away with that?"

"No, not for a second," George admits readily, "Ben hardly let me get away with mentioning our mistakes in the first half."

"Really? I thought Jonny would be more likely to be like that," George is well aware of just how pointless this conversation is becoming, of how they're just filling air. It's easy, it's nice enough, but it's the most purposeless any of their interactions have been since they arrived in Portugal.

"Please, he's as much of a cynic as I am." George shrugs. Owen nods with a light laugh. They sit in silence for a few moments, the sound of Owen's team filtering through as their celebrations rage on in the next room.

"I should probably be getting back to that," Owen says eventually, unable to keep the small smile off his face after a particularly loud shout. He's missing it, George can tell. Owen loves the game more than anything, would rather be playing than watching, but he's always been beyond happy to partake in the celebrations that come afterwards nevertheless. It says something that he's sat here with George moping while there's booze and roughhousing just metres away.

"Yeah probably," George tries not to look too deflated, lets Owen know that it's okay for him to go, even if a selfish part of him wants to keep him to himself.

"You gonna be okay?" Owen reaches out a hand, hovers it on George's knee. When George takes a moment to reply, Owen strokes his thumb back and forth. It's such a gentle caring, so tender it catches George off guard.

"Yeah I'm fine, Faz," George reassures, once again putting on his best convincing smile. He could be worse, in all honesty. "Don't worry."

"Okay," Owen accepts, standing a second later, his hand retracting as he moves away. George can't help the way he instantly misses the feeling of it.

He goes to walk away after that, to leave the room without another word and George goes to pick up his phone again, feeling more ready to call him mum now. Or Joe -he can't quite decide which route to go down first.

"You know," George looks up at the unexpected call, cocks his head at Owen where he's barely looking back at him, body half turned away. "If you ever want to talk about it, we can, yeah? Or about other stuff, whatever, we can chat."

George smiles, small and concealed. "Yeah, I know," he attests with a faint blush. "Thanks Owen."

Owen returns the gesture, the tint on his cheeks hardly noticeable, but undoubtedly there. He hurries out of the room without another word and George soon hears his loud, put on team voice joining in with the Saracens chorus.

He relaxes, grabs his phone, chooses to go with Joe as his first port of call. His brother probably needs the shoulder to cry on more than his mum needs to know that he's on the bench -he has all week to confess to that. Plus, maybe it's naive, but a part of George can't help but now feel like it's not all that important. Sure, he'd been crushed at first, but maybe Owen's right; he is playing well, he's confident enough in that and with him not even having played the last match it's starting to seem fairly understandable that Eddie would want to wean him back in from off the bench.

Joe picks up on the second ring. George settles in for the gruelling procedure of consolation and analysis, despite the optimistic smile on his face.         


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the hours after England beat South Africa 12 -11.

After the match, George is exhausted. He'd only played for the last few minutes, something he's only slightly more than slightly bitter about, but the sheer physical brutality of the game had been enough to wipe him out in moments. When the final whistle had been delayed over a TMO review, thanks to a certain someone, George could have screamed.

"...is all I'm saying." Speak of the devil. George hadn't been tuned in to whatever point Owen had just been making, had long since blocked out the debates about the match happening around him, choosing instead to feign a look of interest as he loses himself in thought. It's the sharp pinch on his rotator cuff assisting Owen's point that draws him back.    

There's only a small group of them left, having migrated into one of the lounges after the post-match dinner. George is tired enough that he'd rather have left for his bed when the rest of the team had, but Owen had had an arm around his shoulders as they'd moved on from the dining room, has had it thrown over the back of the sofa they've been sat on for the last hour, palm flat against George's shoulder blade.

"Didn't mean you needed to lead with your shoulder, though, did it?" Dylan replies, sensible captain voice laced with a little teasing, an edged grin. "It was pretty reckless."

"Yeah, because you're one to talk about being reckless," Owen fires back. It's subtle enough, but there's a heat to it, well hidden, and the others don't seem to pick up on it. Owen's always up for the banter, the teasing that comes with these kind of things -with controversial moments, penalties, cards- but this one is touching a nerve, George can tell. "Anyway, I didn't lead with the shoulder. There was enough of a wrap, ref said so, so it's fine."

"Please!" It's Ben cutting in this time, laughing carelessly. "Mate, we all saw the replays. You got away with murder there and you know it."

And - he's not exactly wrong. They had all seen the replays, George had seen them, had seen it happen real time only a couple of metres in front of him. It had been damning, that's probably fair to say, but still subjective. Owen had definitely gotten lucky with the decision, the whole team had.

"No I didn't," there's almost a growl edging Owen's tone now, the guise of light-hearted raillery he'd been managing to maintain starting to fall away. George twists slightly into Owen's hold, presses the bone of his shoulder into Owen's underarm and eliminates the small distance they'd left between them. It's a minute manoeuvre, nothing that could be considered anything but a natural shift or twitch in George's position, but the tension relieves from Owen's side immediately as he relaxes into it. George feels the hand on his back move until fingers are curling around his bicep, squeezing.

"Mate, come on," Elliot's tone is a little calmer, he's still beaming, but perhaps picking up on warning signs in ways the others maybe can't -in ways George _knows_ Ben can't.

"Come on, what? It was fine and we fucking won," Owen insists, frown creasing deeply into his forehead. "Seriously, back me up here, lads."

"I thought it was fine," Jamie pipes up with a shrug, looking surprisingly uninterested and having been surprisingly quiet. Fatigue is noticeably getting to more of them than just George.

"Thank you!" Owen exclaims, arm that's not tucked between George and the sofa flailing in relief.

"Of course you did, that kind of shit is you Saracens all over," George bites his lip at Ben's comment. Flippant as it is, things like that are known to cause arguments in camp, real ones. With the mood Owen is in tonight, the way he's already tittering on the line between irritation and anger, George isn't assured the reaction will be sugar coated.

"Hey, hey," Dylan interposes just as Jamie's mouth opens to retort, settles the riot before it can start.

Owen is worryingly quiet, body steadily tensing where George had only just managed to relax it. When George turns his head to study him, he can see the cogs turning in his head, the set in his jaw as his mouth curls around a response of his own. Curse Ben's ridiculous inability to think before he opens his mouth.  

Unthinkingly, he drops a hand to Owen's thigh and squeezes. Gone is the usefulness of subtle, barely there touches, this needs something more obvious, a gesture of actual comfort. He presses his thumb in hard against the side of Owen's quad, pinches the tension in the muscle brutally while the tips of his index and middle finger graze the scope of it with intentional tenderness. George fixes Ben with a glare, still blissfully unaware as he laughs at Jamie's grumbled response.

"'s not just Sarries who agree," Owen mumbles, his voice muffled as though he's biting the inside of his cheek. "Right, Georgie?"

Oh. George shifts at the sudden refocus on him in a conversation he had been more or less exempt from, at the looks of expectation for agreement from Ben and Elliot, the ones he can feel from Owen and Jamie, the silent question of opinion from Dylan. He stares down into his lap when it becomes too much, tries to focus on the fiddling of his thumbs rather than the fingers pressing into his bicep, the side stretched against his own.

"Uh," he wants to support Owen, wants to help alleviate the frustration this angle of conversation is causing him, but -he's not so sure. Even if it should class as a legal tackle, and George isn't so sure that it should, it's not as though it wouldn't be right on the boundary, teasing the line. Plus, Ben needs support in this is well. His comment about Saracens, his allusions to the illegality of the game they play -although uncalled for- wasn't exactly _wrong._ George would be lying if he said he hasn't partaken in heavy discussions about it with teammates, with Ben, at Leicester.

"Seriously?" Owen sounds offended, his agitation at the subject leaving little room for blitheness. George is suddenly aware of just how long he's been bumbling. He squeezes Owen's thigh as he turns to face him, realises now how the gesture may have been perceived as solidarity rather than the mere comfort it was intended as.

"Uh," George stutters again, coughs nervously as he tries to think rapidly of just how he ought to address this. "I dunno-" he admits honestly, and he doesn't, doesn't think he's in a position to make that kind of call. "I'm no ref."

"But you saw it, though," Elliot interrupts unhelpfully.

"Yeah, _Georgie,_ " Ben mimics Owen's use of the nickname, puts on possibly the worst Wigan accent George has ever heard. "So what did you think?"

George takes a second to flash him another glare, returns to look at Owen apologetically. "It," he sighs, looks to Dylan for support. The co-captain simply shrugs and Owen urges him on. "It didn't look the best."

"Seriously?" Owen repeats, the small smile he's starting to adorn borderline dumbfounded more than anything else.

They've had differences of opinion about matches and aspects before, have them all the time in fact, often relish in a little healthy debate between one another. George isn't sure why this one is so sensitive, why it's getting to Owen so much.

The arm around George falls, retracts fully along with the weight of Owen against him as he slumps away into the corner of the sofa. George tries not to wince.

"Damn, Faz," Ben whistles lowly. George can tell by the sly smirk slowly creeping into the corners of his lips that he's up to something, that he should expect some wicked remark. He doesn't quite expect the one that comes, though. "It doesn't look good when your boyfriend won't even support you."

The air George sucks in suddenly feels like water and he tries not to choke as he feels a blush instantly rush into his cheeks. Jamie and Elliot are in hysterics, suddenly reunified as a group as they hoot and holler at Ben in delight; even Dylan appears to be suppressing laughter.

It's -well it's out of line really. Ben knows about his sexuality, knows that there are very few people George is comfortable it being discussed in front of, knows that the majority of the people in the room most definitely do not make that list. Yes, it's just a joke, one that's not even aimed at him, and there's no way it was meant maliciously towards either one of them, but  this is just about the only thing Ben is normally so good at being discreet about, knows it's important. He's probably just overexcited, but his sudden disregard for that discretion stings and George doesn't even want to think about the shambles of emotions the mere suggestion that he is Owen's boyfriend conjures.

"Fuck you," Owen scoffs with a flip of his middle finger in Ben's direction. George cocks his head at the pink tint on the tips of his ears, wondering.

It takes George a second to consider that it could be the same for him to, the feeling of distress from the sudden address to his sexuality. It seems unlikely, though. On further contemplation, George guesses the whole group here must know there's something less than straight about Owen's preferences. He's not exactly 'out' officially, and it may take a few beers, but Owen isn't particularly bothered about subtlety when he talks about his love life. It's only been while amongst what he would consider friends more than just teammates, but there have been a few occasions where Owen has openly mentioned being attracted to other men.   

Ben knows his actual label for certain, the three of them having spent enough time together when George was new to the senior squad that it was inevitable he ended up present for some of _those_ conversations. That and he's nosy enough to have out-right asked eventually. Jamie must know from Saracens, and as for Dylan and Elliot, well, George guesses they may well have been present when it has been brought up, Owen's definitely friendly enough with the both of them. That, and gossip spreads like wildfire in camps like these. Perhaps that's why they're finding Ben's comment so funny now.

"Right, lads," Jamie stretches, still chuckling along with Elliot and Ben as they continue to banter the joke between them while he stands. "Fun as this has been, I'm beat. See you all in the morning."

George is really starting to see the appeal of retreating to his own bed. It's been calling him for hours, but the weight of Owen's arm across his shoulders had kept him grounded, fixed in place. With it gone, he's struggling to convince himself to stay.

"I think I'm going to head off too," George huffs a few moments after Jamie disappears. He gives Owen's quad a final pinch between his thumb and little finger, a small attempt at apology before he leaves, uses it as leverage to push himself up.

He gets the same chorus of goodnights as Jamie, although Owen is quiet behind him. George holds off the defeated sigh. Ben sing-songs a goodbye as he moves to head off and George takes a second to glower at him, to make him falter. They'll definitely be talking about _that_ comment in the morning. 

George is halfway up the ground floor stairs when he hears the faint call of "Fordy" from a few paces behind him. It's Owen, stood just a couple of steps down, poised to step up again into a position that would make them immeasurably close, but he pauses just before his weight can shift.

He watches Owen for a moment, studies the way he tries to regain his breath. It must have been a hurry to catch up with him this quickly, there having been no sign of him moving when George had left the room. There are barely thirty metres between the lounge and where they stand now, but a few hours is scarcely enough time to recover from a match like today's.

"I forgot to say earlier," Owen starts once sufficiently composed. "We have training with Jonny on Tuesday when we come back. Just you and me -maybe Elliot. Eddie wanted me to let you know."

"Okay," George plays with the tone of the word a little, more confused than anything. That's nothing a text wouldn't have sufficed, or even just a mention in the morning when they're heading off, and yet Owen ran to tell him now. "Was there something I needed to bring for that or-?"

"What you said," Owen cuts him of, pauses. He looks as though he's struggling for thought for a second, fatigue hindering the words before he can go on. "About- about the tackle..."

"Faz," George says softly, shakes his head. "I meant it, but -I'm not a ref, none of us are."

"No I know, I got that," it's a little harsh, but there's no real bark behind it, so George bites his lip, allows Owen to go on. "I just thought you'd back me up, is all." He shrugs, offers a small -but guileless- smile.

"I do back you, really, I do," George admits honestly. "But it was shit tackle, Owen, even if it was legal."

"Shut up," Owen laughs at that, free and open. George can't help but grin just at the sound of it, so starkly different to his demeanour barely minutes earlier.

"What?" George beams mischievously as the air between them loosens. "Can't stand me coming for your technique?"

"You're hardly one to talk about technique, mate," George tries not to blanche at the word, lets himself keep smiling at Owen's ribbing. "I've seen you tackle George North with your jaw before now."

"Hey, it got him down and it was blatantly legal. Still reckon I've got you beat." George sing-songs.

"You nearly broke your face!" Owen points out, playfully affronted around his laughter.

"Wouldn't want that," George chuckles.

"No I would not," Owen's smile sinks into something predatory around the words, endlessly implicative, his tone hovering between teasing and something warmer. George is far too tired to start trying to read into it, but something in him can't help from fluttering, some hiccup of excitement despite his drooping eyes and aching bones.

"Not even if it would get your rival out the way?" George hums. He places his hand on the banister to drum his fingers, stretches it out towards Owen until it rests just in front of him. George doesn't know what it's an offering of, just want to offer something.

"Wouldn't be worth it," Owen cocks his head, looks to consider George for a second before he reaches out his own arm just a fraction. His fingers come to rest at the side of George's wrist, brushing the thin skin there ever so slightly. "Can't be dealing with not having you around."

"Oh?" George breathes, pointedly doesn't look to where they're touching, keeps his eyes fixed to Owen's own instead. "And why's that?"

Owen shrugs, looks away to glance over his shoulder. "I do need _someone_ to talk to about stuff," he offers eventually, unspecific. "About boys and shit." The offhandedness is nothing if not forced.

George laughs obligingly, turns his arm where it's resting on the banister so as his forearm lies on its side, the back of his wrist now pressing fully into Owen's palm.

"Seriously?" George reappraises Owen's earlier dumbfounded exasperation, earns himself a pinch on his lower radius. "Would appreciate it if you didn't talk about them for a bit, though," George admits, "it's going to take me a little while to recover from Ben opening his big mouth."

"No one thought anything of it," Owen drops his tone, takes on something more serious in his reassurance. It's appreciated, but George instantly misses the easy playfulness of their little game.

"I know, I know," George sighs, lets himself be serious for a moment as well. "I just- I'm not that comfortable with it being... brought up. You get that."

"Not really," Owen half laughs around a huff of air. "I'm pretty sure the whole team knows about what I get up to by this point. I don't really care as long as they're not dicks about it."

"I don't think everyone _knows_ , Owen," George disputes. "You've mentioned it around of enough lads that there are rumours, sure, but that and actually knowing are pretty different. Besides, calling male celebrities fit, or being a bit flirty with a guy in a pub are hardly the most damning pieces of evidence and it's not like you haven't had enough girlfriends over the years to counter it."

They're both examples of things Owen has been doing since way back in juniors, telling of his lack of caring. It's obvious enough that people comment on it at the time, sure, but equally it doesn't tend to get brought up afterwards. There have been plenty of guys who have behaved just as ambiguously over the years, still are now, that it's never been that big of a deal.

"Okay fine, but still," Owen shrugs. "I don't really care what they think I am -I do understand why you would- but I couldn’t do it; worry about concealing it all the time.” 

“You’re not exactly out to England, though,” George points out dumbly, not entirely sure what Owen is trying to get at. 

“No, I know, and I don’t think I really want to be, not formally or anything,” Owen explains. “But if people figure it out then they figure it out -I know you said they don’t, but I’m pretty sure a lot of the lads know already anyway- and I can’t be bothered to try and hide it.”

It’s quite remarkable to see just how relaxed Owen feels about something that is capable of turning George’s stomach. It’s almost awe inducing.

“I wish I could find it as easy as you do,” George chuckles, but hopes it’s clear how sincere he is. 

“Why can’t you?” Owen questions. 

“Because it’s terrifying,” George practically exclaims around a laugh, surprised he’d ever have to explain it. 

“Yeah I know, I know,” Owens thumb runs a soothing line back and forth over George’s wrist, his tone hushing ever quieter. “But -you don’t have to listen to a word I say- but it’s so worth facing the fear. There are guys who are dicks, some of the lads at Saracens make uncomfortable comments sometimes, but I’d happily take that over the constant worry of staying hidden.” 

“All of Sarries know for sure then?” George asks. 

“Pretty sure, yeah,” Owen confirms. “I’ve never, like, made a big announcement or anything, but there have been... incidents over the years."

Yeah, George had known about those already; it's why he'd been so sure that all of Sarries would know, why he's a little surprised to hear that Owen hasn't come out to his club formally. But then again, as much as Owen is all talk now, George is all too aware of just how scary a prospect that can be, is the most likely explanation as to why Owen just lets people think what they want to think without ever actually telling them.

"Any bad reactions?" Owen has never told him explicitly if people have been less than supportive, but then he supposes Owen's never told anyone outright enough to face actual confrontation. He's mentioned guys being 'dicks' twice now, though, and George can't help but sense that something's up there.

"Why do you think I've been avoiding Ashton all camp?" Owen laughs, makes it as light-hearted as he can, but George can see the fringes of dejection around the edges. He cocks his head in question, urges Owen to continue. "We went out to a club a couple of years ago. It was literally his leaving-do at Sarries so it hardly mattered, but I ended up kissing some bloke. I was so sure everyone knew even then, I'd done enough shit like that over the year, but apparently he didn't and he said some distasteful stuff to some of the others who were there. That's- it didn't even matter, like I said, it was when he was leaving- and that was basically the only really bad one; anyone else has just been a bit ignorant."

"Owen, that's-" George is honestly rather taken aback. That's an _incident_ he hadn't known about, can't help but wonder why Owen wouldn't have told him. "That's awful. Have you said anything to Eddie or the coaches since he's been back?"

"Of course not, I haven't even told any of them I'm bi," Owen laughs. "I think we've established that I don't actually like telling people-"

"Owen," George tries to interrupt, but Owen ignores it in favour of carrying on.

"-just like showing them. What do you say, Georgie, fancy being my model to demonstrate my sexual preferences to the coaches?" He winks outrageously, takes George's wrist into a full grip as though he's going to use it to pull him closer.

"Owen," George manages to cut him off this time and does a pretty good job at controlling his fluster in the wake of Owen's undeniable, ostentatious flirt. "You should seriously tell someone about the Ashton thing. Even if you don't say what it is, you could just tell Eddie that he has a problem with you from the past and you'd appreciate him keeping an eye out."

"I know," Owen sighs, deflates, loosens his grip on George's arm, although doesn't let go. "I just- I've seriously reached the point where I just can't be arsed with any of this anymore, you know? I don't want to have to tell people, don't want to deal with all the questions and the harassment. And besides, if guys like Chris are going to be arseholes about it, well, I have enough people on my side to deal with it."

George really does know, thinks he's at pretty much the same point himself. It's fine, keeping everything a secret, having hidden boyfriends and flings, it's great, fun even -when you're twenty. At twenty-five it's starting to wear on him more than just a little bit, but Owen's right; coming out to just about anyone is an absolute nightmare, at least in his experience. All you get is questions you don't want to answer or a tirade of homophobia under the guise of ignorance. Even if it wasn't an utterly terrifying prospect, that would be enough to put him off for sure.

"I feel that," it feels like such an insufficiency in the wake of Owen's open confession, but there's not much more George can think to say, not much he could add to such an encompassing statement.

"You alright, lads?" George jumps at the interruption, so caught up in the discussion that he hadn't noticed Dylan climbing the stairs behind Owen, right in his line of vision. Owen retracts his hold from George instantly as he turns to face his co-captain and it suddenly starts to sink in to George just how public of a discussion they'd been having. It might be late into the evening, but halfway up the stairs right in the middle of the hotel? That's probably as reckless as they've ever been. Maybe it's telling of just how tired of all this they really are -or just how tired they are period.

"I was just telling George about our training with Jonny on Tuesday," Owen hums although a justification wasn't asked for. It's a bit formal in comparison to how Dylan and he would normally communicate and the look on Dylan's face indicates he's not falling for it for a second. Credit where it's due, though, he doesn't say anything, allows Owen to carry on. "You heading to bed?"

"Yeah, you coming?" Dylan asks his roommate.

Owen glances back over his shoulder to George. It's an invitation, an offer that they can carry this on if he wants to, that they can find somewhere more discrete and chat into the night. The proposal is beyond tempting, a chance to do something they haven't done since early juniors, since they were first trying to figure out what the hell they both were and blindly succour the other through it. But- no. The day's been exhausting, this conversation even more so, and George doesn't quite trust himself not to fall asleep as soon as he gets himself sat down. This needs attention, it needs focus, and the way they are now just isn't doing it justice.

Silently, he shakes his head, but he reaches out his fingers to brush, just for a second, on the small of Owen's back -can only hope it conveys his promise that they'll do this another time.

"Sure," Owen confirms to Dylan and moves to follow him as they pass George on the stairs, heading up to their room. "Night, Fordy."

George stares after him for a second, tries desperately to convince himself it's not the deep rooted pining it so blatantly is.

"Night, Faz."  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you all enjoyed today's match as much as I did. It was definitely needed after last week!


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Set the week of England v New Zealand, score 15-16.

It's Tuesday morning and the squad are fresh back from a couple of days respite at home. In reality, it was more like a day and a half with all the travelling to and from, but there's a clear rejuvenation in the faces of much of the team. During camps like these any time with family, with wives and children, is preciously scarce and the toll it takes becomes especially evident towards the end of tough stints away such as last week. With the even harsher grind this week is bound to bring, the even longer sabbatical they've been promised before the game against Japan will certainly be an assured necessity. George can't quite say that he understands, can't say that he'd rather be sat in his all-too-empty house by himself than out on the pitch doing what he loves; the only thing he's loved for too long now.

That's not a thought that he allows to plague him, however, not when he and Owen are in the midst of the kicking session with Jonny Wilkinson that George had been promised. The weather is a bit hit and miss, so most of the forwards have been sent inside to the gym, but a few of the backs remain for some skills training around the fringes of the pitch. Elliot even joins them for a brief period to slot some place kicks of his own, but the second Jonny brings up drop goals he runs for the hills. So that leaves just the three of them in a bubble George can't help but dissolve into, even if things aren't going so well.

"Things just aren't going your way today, are they?" Owen is grinning when George turns to glare at him, his latest attempt off his boot having wobbled all over the place, drifted far wide to the right of the posts. Even he seems vitalised after the short time off, the agitation after the South Africa game all but eradicated.   

"Didn't see your place kicks at their best just now," George quips back grumpily.

They do seem to have somewhat switched roles today; Owen falling down a little on his normally near perfect record off the tee while excelling out of hand. Not that he isn't usually annoyingly damn good out of hand anyway. George on the other hand has spent enough time practicing his place kicking recently that it's definitely a lot better than it was this time last year, although it's not quite been showing as much as he'd have liked today. As for off the boot, well, he's just been embarrassing himself.

"They were good enough for you to ogle while I took them," Owen winks, drops the ball he's holding onto his foot and sends it flying between the posts.

George just shakes his head at the audacious implications within the comment, notices the way Jonny stutters around the feedback he's giving them, a blush from more than just the cold tinting his ears. George can't help but feel for the poor guy, having to deal with the endless torrents of brutal, biting banter Owen's and his competitiveness leaves inevitable when they're left alone to train together. The wicked flirtation, that is all Owen's daring, George refuses to take any blame for that.

Setting up once again, Jonny's embarrassedly mumbled advice in the forefront of his mind, George takes another shot. As it bounces back towards them off the crossbar, he can't help but curse, his arms flapping down against his sides in frustration.

"Oh Georgie," Owen tuts playfully, shakes his head at George in disappointment.

"Piss off," George barely manages to censor, well aware of just how unprofessional this game of theirs is becoming and in front of whom. It so often does, when it's allowed to flourish; the stress of last season hadn't allowed much room for it. George is starting to realise now just how much he's missed it, how much he'd despised the mundane civility they'd become accustom to compensating with.

After a handful more kicks each, Jonny rounds off the session with general notes for both of them and sends them off to get some lunch before they're due in the gym for the afternoon. George is just about managing to duck away from a patronising hair ruffle from Owen when the looming figure of Eddie Jones catches up to them, asks to borrow George for a quick word.

"Good session?" Eddie asks leadingly as the pair saunter slowly along the length of the touchline. He's expecting honesty, none of the vague blunderings George knows he could conjure up.

"Could've been better," George settles on a simple candidness, hopes it will stand him in good stead.

"There are a few things that need more work, yes," George hadn't noticed Eddie watching, part of him, probably naively, assuming that he'd been focussed on the players training further out.

"Nothing is finalised yet, it's too early in the week," Eddie continues. George isn't sure he likes where this is going. "But we are thinking of going with Owen for fly half this week." George was right, he doesn't like it.

"Will I be-" George coughs, "will I be on the bench, or?"

"Yes I would think so," Eddie confirms quickly. "Like I said, nothing is assured just yet, but likely, yes, you'll be amongst the finishers. I'm very interested to see what you can bring to such a game, George."

He's sent on his way after that, packed off to lunch with nothing more than a growling stomach and a growing feeling of dejection. Two weeks in a row on the bench, three tests in a row without starting. George tries to ignore the throbbing fear of what these decisions are foreboding. It's a tirade of thoughts just about threatening to eat him alive until he reaches the dining room, until he's met by Owen waiting outside, one foot up against the wall behind him, staring out ahead of him looking beyond bored.

"Alright?" George greets upon approach. He shudders at just how deflated he sounds, works to rectify it quickly with a forced smirk. "Waiting for me?" He asks, coyness all a mockery of Owen's own teasing. There's nothing like playing him at his own game.

"What was all that about?" Owen questions, opting to allow for a seriousness over falling back into their banter the way George had hoped he might. It had been so nice all morning, such easy, pointless gibberish taking over where it always used to reign when they were younger, before they cared if they were pitted against each other, before it mattered.

"Nothing really," George lies. "Just asked how the session was."

Part of George wants to think he's just refusing his rival the satisfaction, letting him think he still has it all to work for.

"Oh yeah?" Owen grins, returns to their fun. "Eddie wanted an explanation for your terrible kicking, did he?"

But it's futile. George just wants to enjoy having Owen as his friend, doesn't want anything to jeopardise it, doesn't want the pressure of rivalries or competition. It's too nice as it is.

"Actually he was asking me what the hell happened to yours," George smiles back, resolves to play along. "He was worried I was distracting you."

"Oh, always," Owen laughs, crow's feet gleaming. "Come on, I'm starving," he continues, cheerful, but more acceptably friendly in a way that most of the interaction had challenged.

George allows himself to be ushered into the dining room, to sit opposite Owen and poke at his meal as he listens to his friend rambling, to play along whenever boundaries get pushed. It's nice.

~~~~~

They lose to New Zealand. By a point. The point by which they had beaten South Africa. A subjective referee decision steals the win from them, same way it had saved them an almost certain last minute loss last week. It's brutal.

Even if George had only played the last ten minutes he still feels it, the bitter disappointment that accompanies the loss, the fatigue even more crippling than last weeks when it's coupled with the defeat that feels like such an injustice.

After the game, already showered and suited in preparation for a meal no English-born player is anticipating appreciably, George finds himself a spot in the lounge. There are a few players dotted around the room, in armchairs and corners of sofas as far from the next body as possible. Most have phones pressed to their ears, talking in hushed tones; the others are furiously typing onto mobiles or tablets. George's chair is just by the window, facing out into a view of nothing but grey tarmac and grey clouds, a few dribbles of drizzle just beginning to tap dismally at the glass. He stares at the open text conversation on the too-bright screen held down by his lap, his dad's request for a short call, George's agreement just beneath, and waits for it to ring.

It doesn't even get the chance to make a sound, just the briefest of vibrations indicating the incoming call before George has it pressed to his ear. "Hi dad," he greets quietly, unashamed of how groggy he sounds.

"Hi George," Mike responds. George will take the unsympathetic pity in his voice, is too glad to just be hearing it at this point. "You should've won that."

If George wanted to be mollycoddled, he'd have denied his dad this conversation, would've called his mum. This is what he needs right now, he knows that. It's unapologetic in tone and opinion, it's frank and rugby-minded. Harsh but necessary.

"That was a try, no doubt," his dad continues. It's unlike him to view these kind of things from such a 'fan-orientated' perspective, but this fixture brings out the most tribal patriotism in all players, present or past -George knows all too well. "Very poor officiating, if you ask me."

"I dunno, dad," George sighs. He'd seen the replays on the stadium screens and -he doesn't know. "Some people would say the same about last week."

"Some people would," Mike concedes, "and no doubt you've addressed it as such in your analysis of the match, but _this_..." He pauses, sighs. "I'm coming across as very biased, I know."

"Just a bit," George manages to huff a small laugh. "Not very professional of you."

"Well it's a good thing it's not my job to be professional about England business anymore," Mike says. "It is my job to be your dad, however. How're you doing?"

"Been better," George admits, although it's nothing he didn't already know was obvious and he can't be bothered to try and hide it. "It's so frustrating to have to watch from the sidelines, you know? I want to be out there playing, winning or losing. Maybe I'm asking for too much and I should be grateful to even be selected after what happened in the summer, but I want more than ten minutes at the end of a match."

"You're not asking too much by wanting that, everyone wants that," Mike tells him. His dad had been so furious when George had been demoted from the match day squad for the third summer test, hasn't exactly been happy that he's been on the bench for the last two weeks either. "You're a very valuable asset to the team, George, but coaches do this sort of thing, chop and change their squad and starters. I should know, I've done it enough times."

George peers back out into the room, away from the window, as his dad continues to ramble. It's nothing George doesn't know, nothing he wants to hear either -just wants to wallow in the injustice of it all. A lot of the guys have cleared out, only a sparse few still chatting away on their phones, far from George. It's telling that it must be getting close to time for the meal, but George is more than willing to put that off for as long as he can.

He watches as the door opens just a touch, continues to ignore his father's meandering as he watches the figure slip through it, push it closed behind himself. Owen, dressed neatly in a suit with impressively minimal creases, has his phone up against his own ear. With his free hand he reaches up and loosens the tie around his collar until it looks comfortably dishevelled. He's not speaking, his brow drawn in tight frustration, slackening when he appears to give up and hang up the phone.

"George?" He tunes back in to what his dad is saying just as Owen catches his eye from across the room. He can't even seem to force a smile beyond the unyielding desolation in his expression.

"Sorry dad," George beckons Owen over without another thought, keeps their gaze as he begins his approach. "I have to go."

"Okay, well," Mike sounds a little baffled by the sudden brush off. George doesn't think about how long he'd been ignoring his dad in favour of staring at Owen, barely gets through an 'I love you' before hanging up.

"Was that your dad?" Owen asks as he finally draws in close, takes the chair opposite George and shunts it in a couple of notches closer.

"Yeah, he's pretty pissed about the result," George supplies. He gestures to the phone now tucked visibly into Owen's trouser pocket as he asks, "Yours?"

"He didn't answer," Owen murmurs, drops his head to stare at his fingers held in his lap, shrugs. "Ireland had Argentina today, so he's probably pretty busy."

"He'll call as soon as he can, I'm sure," George promises, although he's aware that it's hardly enough. Owen needs something now, needs a crutch to lean on, to hold him up. George had barely played ten minutes and he surely had; Owen having played a full eighty as a co-captain, George can only imagine. It's not enough, but it's all he can do to offer himself. "You okay?"

Owen's nostrils flare as his jaw tenses upon the question. George curses himself at his own inadequacy.

"Not really," he supplies through gritted teeth. "We were so close, you know? And we needed this, after all the shit last season, we could've beaten the bloody All Blacks and we let it fall away from us."

"We'll get them next time," George consoles weakly as Owen pauses, draws in a deep breath to continue.

"And when will that be? In four more years?" He insists austerely. George knows it's all frustration, that it's not aggression, stops the heat of confrontational retort threatening to rise within him. Support is what Owen needs, what they all need, he reminds himself.

"God, if we had just kept a tiny bit more discipline in defence," Owen recommences, the bite slowly dying from his tone. "If I could've just nailed that first fucking conversion."

"Hey," George interrupts, scowl setting into his features. This is a cycle of self-deprecation he knows all too well and it does no good. He leans forward, hand outstretched to cover Owen's knee. "Don't torture yourself like that. Okay, _maybe_ if you'd gotten those two extra points we would've been the ones scraping the win, _maybe_. But this is New Zealand we're talking about here, do you not think that if they'd needed to they wouldn't've found some extra points somewhere? Shipped the ball out to Barrett for another drop goal, or pushed just a bit harder for another try?"

"We would've had the chance to defend that, though, the whole team together. And if we lost it, that's something we could work on." Owen disputes, fierce in his opinion, gentle in the way he drops his own hand to cover George's. "That conversion was two points _I_ missed, that's on me, my skill error. And as I see it, it lost us the whole damn game."

"Then that's something _you_ work on. Whether it's as individuals or a whole pack, we work on things when they go wrong." George digs his fingers into Owen's knee cap, feels Owen's responding squeeze atop his own hand. "Just like you did with your drop goals, and that paid off today, yeah? Hell, you're one of the best drop goalers in the world now. So even if you want to believe you lost us the match, which you didn't, we would've lost by a whole lot more if it hadn't been for you."

"I don't want to believe it," Owen sighs, "But it's kind of hard not to see it that way. I know I sound like a petulant kid right now who just wants to do himself down and I know it's stupid not to see that everyone played a role is us losing same as they do when we win, but..." he trails off.

"But?" George urges, grip still holding firm.

"But there's so much pressure now," Owen exhales, deflates visibly as though just saying the words has relieved some of the pressure in question. "I'm constantly looking over my shoulder for Ashton -and I know I should talk to the coaches, or whatever, and maybe I will, I don't know yet. But also, there's so much to think about, as a captain or co-captain, as fly half without you out there."

"Without me?" George questions, head tilting in intrigue as he's brought into Owen's point so unexpectedly.

"Yeah. Look, don't take this the wrong way," Owen warns, fingers connecting between his own knee and George's palm to create a full hold. "I love playing at ten, and I guess with you on the bench it makes that a lot easier for me. But when you're there, even if it means I'm playing at twelve or wherever, there's way less pressure on me to make every decision to kick, or be the only one who can take the drop goal."

George doesn't really know how to respond to that, can only hum his acknowledgement as Owen embarks further.

"That and -well, I want you out there with me, you know? There's nothing like playing when it's with you; when I don't even have to look and I know you'll be there to catch the pass, or when I'm trying to give a speech in the huddle and I can't make my point because I'm so shit with words so you take over and make it for me. I dunno, it's just been so long and I'm so used to having you there, I guess I kind of miss it." Owen rounds off so eloquently.

Touched doesn't even begin to describe how George feels at hearing those words, to hear that Owen, his rival, _wants_ him out there playing. It's so oxymoronic that Owen could proclaim he's not good with words in the midst of a declaration George could never have begun to formulate let alone announce. The sentiment is moving in a way that has emotions flooding George's mind and heart enough to make him dizzy, suppressed and poorly ignored for so long that their release is intoxicating.

The hard bone of a kneecap under his palm, the warmth of fingers curling over his knuckles, are all George has to keep him grounded.

"Sorry," Owen fills the silence George hadn't realised he'd been allowing, so caught up in his own whirlwind. "I shouldn't be sat here complaining to you of all people, when you're not even getting..." he doesn't finish that sentence, George is glad for it. "I'm wasting your time, sorry."

"Waste it," George says quickly, unthinkingly, watches as Owen's face falls into a frown, scrabbles to rectify it. "You're not -wasting my time, that is- but even if you were then waste it. I'd want you to."

Owen can only nod, mute as though he can't quite figure out what George means. George isn't sure himself. All this, everything Owen has said, the angle of their bodies towards each other, the way they're in each other's space, practically breathing each other's air, it's everything that George can't understand and yet everything he wants to. To wonder how the hell they could have ended up here.

~  

George had no idea why he had to go. Just because 'it'd do his game good' or whatever excuse his dad tried to swing him. Yet neither of his brothers had been forced out into the freezing rain with him just for the sake of watching some friendly, premiership warm-up, seconds team match. Something about Joe having had too much school work to be disturbed and Jacob having been too young to be anything more than a nuisance while their dad tried to work. If it had been, well, any other match to be honest, on a slightly warmer and dryer night, George would have had no problem with it, in fact he'd probably have been buzzing with excitement at the prospect of getting to watch a proper Saracens game and getting to listen to all the intricacies of the coaches' decisions and comments. Watching a bunch of academy boys barely five years older than himself run around in the pouring rain and freezing wind, however, was not exactly high up on his wish list.

So, that is where he ended up; freezing his arse of in a cold plastic seat with only the clear cover of the coaches' booth to shelter him from the near thunderstorm going on. Really, he supposed, he shouldn't complain, every other fan was hunched under wind battered umbrellas as they piled into the grounds and waited for the match to start. George couldn't help wondering why they even bothered going. Thankfully for George, though, he'd managed to sneak his earphones and pocket MP3 player past his dad, and he'd been allowed to take his Nokia. That's how he  hadn't gone out of his mind from boredom, music blasting in the ear his dad couldn't have seen and a good game of Snake kept him occupied as he huddled under his ski jacket in the corner.

"Hey mate!" George looked up to see as some guy grinned wildly at him, slotted just a little too far into George's personal space as he promptly took the seat beside him. "Did your dad drag you out too? Mine says he reckons it'll be to my benefit or something. Can't see how sitting out in this weather is going to make me anything but ill, personally."

And he talked too much as well. George scowled as he looked at the slightly familiar face that beamed annoyingly at him. Who was this kid? "Uh yeah," George shifted away just a little. Why had this kid spoken to him like they'd been friends for years? He looked a little familiar, but he had probably just seen him around at school or something. George wasn't too bothered about trying to be subtle about just how uncomfortable this guy had made him, or about seeming rude, asking, "sorry, do I know you?"

The guy's face fell just a bit, but at least he just looked more confused than offended. George really needed to work on his people skills.

"I'm Owen," Owen spoke slowly, head tilted to the side as his brows furrowed, looking at George as though he was questioning just what he was looking at. "You are George, right? We played league in Oldham. My dad told me that your dad works here too."

"We played together in Oldham?" George started wracking his brain for any semblance of this kid as a teammate. That really was a downside of having played for so many of the clubs. God, that annoying smile really looked familiar.

"No!" Owen laughed and shoved lightly at George's shoulder. George frowned again. "No we played against each other one time, it wasn't long ago actually, end of last season I think."

Suddenly it all came back to George and he tried not to let his mouth drop open at the memory. The massive Wigan St Patricks' lock forward that had absolutely annihilated them, the annoyingly egotistical kid that had made a point of chatting to him at the end of the match when George had just wanted to get the handshakes over and done with and wallow in their loss, Owen, who had flooded him with compliments despite the fact he'd had a shit game. George flushed a little at the last thought and made a point of looking at his phone again.

"You don't remember?" Jesus, did this guy never quit? George had seen Owen deflate slightly out of the corner of his eye and sighed, maybe he should take a little pity on him. It was pretty flattering that Owen had remembered him, after all. To anyone else it would have been just another match, just another handshake, another player.

"Yeah I do, I remember now," George put his phone away so he could look at Owen properly, the least he could do was be a little bit polite -the earphone stayed in though. He gave Owen a, slightly forced, smile. "Hi mate."

Owen positively beamed. Nope, still annoying, George decided.

"We live pretty near each other, right?" Owen asked, still too overexcited. George shrugged and Owen nodded his head vigorously. "I'm pretty sure we do, I think I saw you and your dad leaving to come here earlier."

Great, so he was a stalker as well.

"I guess we probably do then," George laughed awkwardly, fingers fiddling anxiously under his coat.

"You should come over some time!" Owen practically exclaimed. George would not be doing that... "We can watch a game together or something."

No... "Yeah sure," what the hell was he doing? "That'd be great." For fucks sake, what had he gotten himself into.

Once again, Owen smiled brightly at him, eyes crinkled at the corners. George couldn't help noticing just how blue they were, a bit like his own, they were kind of pretty. He shook his head, having to have glanced away as he berated himself. Where the hell did that come from? When he looked back, Owen was still gazing at him and he smiled again making George blush a little under the intense attention. Their conversation seemed to have gone rather flat, but they still had a while before the match was due to start. Damn George's anxious need to fill every silence.

"Do you -uh," George motioned towards his loose earphone, "Do you wanna listen?"

Owen just shrugged. "Only if your music isn't shit," he supplied, but took the offered earphone anyway, still smiling at George as he fitted it to himself.

"You can choose something else if you want," George pulled out his iPod Nano and handed it to Owen, a little embarrassed as he scrolled through his, admittedly poor, music taste. He watched as Owen scrolled happily through the mess that was his album collection and paused to hover over something before changing his mind and leaving it as it was. George shook his head. This kid really was something else.

~

Even then he'd been one step away from pulling Owen's pigtails in the playground and that was over twelve years ago. Now, he has Owen holding his hand and a tirade of feelings he's been trying, and failing, to deny this whole time.

Oh God, that really is what they are - _feelings_. The flutter he gets every time Owen is soft with him, the jolt he gets at the amatory remarks, the thrill from what he thought was meretricious flirting. George hadn't wanted to realise it before, but he can see now that it's been seeping through since as far back as the end of last season; when the pressure had started to ease off, when they had begun to re-emerge into actual companionship after the callousness of required professionalism. Part of him had known he'd been pining for something -just hadn't realised it had been for anything more than the ease of childhood friendship.

Owen pinches George's hand lightly in his own, gives him a warm smile amidst the lingering silence. It's so comfortable, not banter or flirtatious fun and games, not overtly serious or emotional, just easy in congeniality.

George thinks that maybe he understands now, the rejuvenation the other guys get from time off. Thinks he could easily want to be sat in his house, full enough with both himself and Owen, maybe even more than being out on the pitch doing what he loves.   

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What a day! I had lost all hope, but our Fordy (kind of) saved us! (and on his birthday!)   
> It's not a win and it's not the championship, but... it could have been worse? Hope you enjoyed.


	5. Chapter 5

George spends the next three days alone in that house which now feels like nothing more than empty space.

He manages not to think about things much, to keep himself mostly occupied. On Sunday he makes the drive up home and flakes out pretty much as soon as he gets there. There's a meeting at the club on Monday morning before he kills probably one too many hours in the gym. Ben comes over to annoy him for most of Tuesday afternoon before dragging him out to the pub where they meet with Jonny, Matty and Tom. They're not really allowed to drink much at this point in the season as per their diet plans, especially with internationals, but George indulges himself with a couple of pints, thinks he more than needs them.

"You alright, tipsy?" Ben asks as George returns to their table, third beer in hand. The others had all moved on to water by this point and George knows he probably should be joining them, but the opportunity to drown his -he doesn't even know what- is too appealing to pass up.

"I'm not tipsy," George flips him off with one hand as the other draws the glass up to his mouth for a swig.

"Yeah and I'm sure Eddie Jones will  be really inclined to believe you when you rock up with a hangover tomorrow morning." Matt jokes lightly and George offers him the same treatment for his troubles. "Don't give me that, you know what a light-weight you are. Get to the end of that pint and you'll be swaying."

"It's cause he's short," Jonny butts in, "Nowhere for the booze to go."

"Don't think being short affects the capabilities of your liver, mate," Tom laughs shaking his head.

"You're just saying that because you're short too," Jonny disputes. "I reckon it does, reckon that's why Fordy's doesn't work properly."

"Sorry, how did we get on to talking about my height and liver exactly?" George demands, somewhat failing to cover all notions of actual agitation in his tone. He's being touchy, he knows, knows he should cut it out, is equally less than likely to.

"When you started being an alcoholic," Ben chides. It's a bit severe as an aspersion, three pints is not a lot, but it's a lot more than standard the night before returning to an international training camp. His friend might be intent on joking around, but George can see from the look on his face that Ben can definitely tell that something is up.

"It's alright, mate," Matt joins in and George is just about to thank him for the rescue before he goes on further. "We'll take you to the AA meetings, find you a good sponsor."

"Fuck off, the lot of you," George insists, a heat rising up behind it. He's really on edge, too on edge. Even the beer isn't enough to make any of this lucid.

He gets a round of sarcastic heckles for his reproach, but there's still that look on Ben face, the hinted concern that he needs to escape. If he doesn't he'll be forced into a private conversation on the way home to ask him just what exactly the matter is. George thinks he needs to think that through himself before he can get anyone else involved.

Making quick work of the last pint, he makes his excuses and flees knowing the hour is still too early for Ben to be happy accompanying.    

By the time he beds down for night, George gets the chance to let his mind fire.

It's just a crush, so far as he can tell, childish as it may sound. George is used to them, though, has had them on teammates often enough to know that it's nothing serious. Him fancying Ben back when they'd first met, George just a confused teenager at the time, is testament to that; just thinking of it now is enough make him shudder. There had been a slightly more intense crush on Anthony when he'd moved to Bath, but that fizzled out pretty quickly as he became a closer, and blatantly heterosexual, friend. He has also been lusting after Maro for about the last two and half years, but George reckons that's the same for anyone who has eyes: male, female, or other, straight or otherwise.

Those had all been straight guys he'd barely known at the time, though -the purely shallow coveting for Maro aside. Owen is his long standing friend, one who is decidedly _not_ within the bounds of heterosexuality, one who George has never been able to shake off no matter how much he's moved around, how competitive they get, how much coaches and media try to make them rivals.

They are rivals, and George has been feeling it recently probably more than he ever has, yet he's still lying here asking himself if he might have feelings for him. This is the kind of dilemma he wishes he could have had at sixteen, _should_ have had at sixteen, maybe sort of did have at sixteen. He does not want this now, a decade later, when he might actually have to deal with the consequences.

It'll go away. Or at least he has to believe it will just to get through the gut-wrenching, agonising torture that is fancying someone, least of all one of your best mates. Perhaps that's not the way most normal people view it, but George's lifetime worth of fleeting, meaningless fantasy that rarely sticks around long enough to come to anything hasn't exactly left him with the most straightforward of outlooks. Knowing his luck, though, this time will be the one time he get stuck with this pining for the long-haul. Fucking brilliant.  

About to give up, roll over and fall asleep, George is interrupted by his phone ringing from the nightstand. Seeing the caller ID, he visibly deflates. It's not even out of worry at the foreboding of the caller, but dejection at who the caller's not. Maybe he actually is sixteen again -he's sure as hell starting to feel like it.

"Hello George," Eddie speaks before George has the chance to greet him. "I hope I'm not disturbing you too late."

"Not at all," George assures. He looks over to the bedside clock, watches as it flicks to 21:32 -and he's already in bed. God, if tonight hasn't been enough to make him feel pathetic.

"I just wanted to run some things past you about the upcoming match against Japan," Eddie continue, voice just as unreadable as ever. "We'll have a more in depth meeting tomorrow of course, to finalise some of the details."

This is it. George sinks back against his pillows as he lets the prelude to disappointment wash over him. He'd already lost his willingness at optimism, hopes crushed too many times over the minimal amount of season already past to expect anything but what is starting to feel so hopelessly like his new permanent spot on the bench.

"I'd like to start you at fly half this week," George squeezes his eyes shut, ears already hearing the dismal disappointment before his brain has the chance to catch up. Wait, what? "And I wanted to know how you'd feel about captaining the side. Just yourself, no co-captaincy with another player."

George can only splutter for a moment, body rocketing upright as the words begin to sink in. For a second he wonders if he's dreaming, if his mind is playing cruel tricks on him, but -no. He can still hear Eddie's breathing on the end of the line, can feel the weighted expectation for an answer; this is real.

"I would," George has to cough, clears the giddiness beginning to oscillate in his throat. "I would be- I don't know what -thank you so much."

"I'm anticipating we will need to play more tactically for Japan, it won't do to just try and out-power them as it might with other nations and I see what you can bring in that respect." George tries not to take that as the back-handed compliment it feels like, as the labelling of him as a physical liability against larger teams. It's not meant that way, not explicitly, although he doesn't doubt that his coach is choosing his discourse selectively, intentionally fuelling George's desideratum to prove himself.

"We'll need to play a much faster, wider game -play them at their own game, as it were-" Eddie continues. "And I feel that you're very apt at delivering that kind of tactical play."

Again, George makes a point of not reading into it, not dwelling over the implications that he's not trusted to employ more the brutally orientated style of rugby that is expected against other, better sides.

"And all this will be a nice addition to your fiftieth cap, no?" Eddie concludes, a noticeable lightening to his tone and George complies with startled laughter.

He hadn't even realised, had forgotten that that milestone had been drawing close. Near the tail end of last season he'd been excited for it, had known it would come either this Autumn or in the coming Six Nations, selection providing. As that selection had dwindled, however, as his minutes of game time had petered into hours fewer, the countdown he had started had begun to get lost.

"As I said," Eddie begins to round off as he and George finish with their exchange of pleasantries, "we can discuss this further in person tomorrow morning. Enjoy the rest of your evening."

When the phone line beeps into dead silence, George can only sit, stunned, a mantra of questioning as to whether that actually just happened ringing through his ears. He grins suddenly, beams brightly to no one but himself, so widely that his cheeks hurt. He's going to start for his country again, he's going to _captain_ his country.

He adjusts the phone in his hand, unlocks it and quickly composes a text. The words are so similar to how they have been before, the times he'd been asked to co-captain against the Barbarians, when he'd first been asked to captain at Leicester, the times he'd co-captained at Bath, and yet the severity, the uncontainable excitement he knows they portray is unchallengeable. It's a sloppy mess of unchecked grammar and rambling syntax, but it doesn't matter, it doesn't need to be any better.

Opening the contacts list, George quickly selects everyone he'd previously sent those similar messages to, his parents' and brothers' contacts all up in his favourites, before he unthinkingly scrolls down to find the last member of the unspoken group, the one he finally gets to start alongside again.

Seeing it written there, though, George stops, hovers over the name as pragmatic thinking finally returns over the blindness of excitement. Can he tell Owen this? There's every chance he doesn't even know yet, that he's at home fully expecting to return to training tomorrow and be handed back his captains armband without hindrance. George has felt the crush of demotion enough already this season to know that he never wants to be the one to cause it, knows Owen is the last one he'd want to cause it for.

He reads over the message once again, takes in his delighted sprawl with a growing apathy, frown pinching into his brow. A huge part of him is hardly able to contain his joy, a reckless part that's threatening to throw caution to the wind and send the message to his entire list of contact. Another part doesn't know how to feel, doesn't want to feel yet, not until he knows Owen's reaction to it all.   

In the end, George deletes it all together, falls asleep keeping the secret all to himself.

~~~~~

In the morning, George is surprised to find so many of the lads in camp so early. He'd been packed into his car and ready to go before seven, keen to get down to his meeting with Eddie promptly. Despite the numbers, however, it becomes apparent to George quite quickly that he is the only Tiger there already; no Owen either, so far as he can see.

He spends ten minutes or so exchanging greetings with a small group he slots himself in with, kills time by listening to the story Dylan is telling about something he did with his family during the time off. He laughs lightly at the funnier moments, mostly battles to appear interested as he tries not to let his attention wonder.

There's a buzzing under his skin. It had been thrumming since he'd woken up this morning,  crescendoing the whole drive down until it had become the barely ignorable itch that it is now. Dylan fixes him with a look as he rounds off his address to the group and George smiles obligingly at the coda, although he's not quite sure that's what it had been intended to portray.

"You got a meeting, Fordy?" Dylan asks outright when George fails to respond to the silent insinuations. Most of the group turn their focus to him then, expectant. George coughs, averts his eyes, bites his lip over the smile that's threatening.

"Yeah," George responds, fingers moving to physically scratch at his wrist in the hopes it might relieve some of the invisible itch before he explodes with it. "You sitting in on it too?"

"Nah mate," Dylan responds, smiling knowingly as he nods George in the direction of the door. George notices Eddie's assistant there, scanning through the players in the room, presumably sent on an errand to retrieve him. "This one's all for you."

George really does smile at that, can't help letting it break through, spread into a wide grin. He knows he must look a bit dopey with it, knows it must look completely ridiculous to the others that he would be so excited for a meeting, especially considering where his last few have left him. It must look strange that he and Dylan would be talking about it in such an encrypted way, but he doesn't care, can't care.

Just knowing that someone else knows, that someone else is as happy for him as Dylan appears to be has any remnants of last night's lassitude dissipating in seconds. He springs up from his seat, excuses himself with what must be a confusing amount of exhilarated vigour as he jogs away.

"Morning, George," Eddie greets as George is shown into the room, scarcely managing to battle his beaming into a controlled, but uncontrived smile.

"Morning," George returns pleasantly, confidently, moving to initiate a succinct handshake in a move he would usually be the one waiting for.

"Good few days off?" Eddie asks with a typical manner of disinterested politeness, although the quirk of his mouth gives it away as a ploy, a method to interpret George's true feelings towards the turn of events. Even Eddie's stoicism isn't enough to hide it.

"Brilliant," George inserts firmly. He believes it too, nigh on forgets the way he'd spent all but the last twelve hours struggling with the woes newly desired romance.  

"I'm glad to hear it," his coach tells him genuinely, allowing a second's worth of contented friendliness before he sinks back into a cool professionalism, steers the conversation forward.

"I think this will be a good opportunity to try a couple of things in preparation for the World Cup," Eddie says once they've ironed out a few details regarding George's captaincy. "The shorter time in training is one thing, you captaining another, but I'm also considering starting a few more inexperienced players. I know you spent some time witch Joe Cokanasiga in Portugal, so I'd like you take a bit of a lead with him. Mercer I know you're friendly with as well, so show him the ropes where you can, but he should be fine left with the other forwards."

George almost feels as though he should be taking notes. This is so starkly different from all his other recent meetings with his coach, their cold shortness in length, the briefness, the callousness. All this detail may be going a little over his head, but he'd take this any day, wants it every day.

"There might be a bit of media backlash since I'm putting some of the more popular players on the bench, but we should probably be able prepare for that sufficiently before the pre-match conference." Eddie hardly leaves a moment for George to nod in approximated understanding before he's going on. "I don't plan to leave Farrell on the bench for too long as it is, maybe bring him on at fifty minutes or so, halftime if he's needed."

George splutters the interruption before he has time to think it through, barely has the capacity for embarrassment at the way his coach cuts off to stare at him confused. "Faz is on the bench?"

There hadn't been a second where George had considered his return as a starter would see Owen demoted to the bench, such an obvious first choice for so long that it had been so easy to assume they would easily slot back into the positions in which they'd formed such a strong axis.

"Yes," Eddie confirms, slightly slow on the uptake as he considers the parameters of George's question. They have an obvious friendship, George knows, doesn't care what the manner of his confusion appears as, only interested in the justification. "A trial for the World Cup, as I said. We don't know that Owen will be available or fit for every game and I want to see how you can slot into the role he's been fulfilling recently."

"Right, of course," George shakes his head a little in disbelief. It stings slightly, being the one to demote Owen so far down, and he has a complete empathy for how adverse it feel, but part of him can't help feeling bolstered at being so entrusted.    

"Obviously this means you'll be taking any place kicks and I'd like you to carry on even after we introduce Owen," Eddie continues. "You're place kicking has come a very long way, but I wouldn't want to throw you into it without test match practice if and when we require it in more crucial games."

The buzzing under George's skin feels all but gone. There's still elation sparking there, but the rest is less distinguishable.    

"You're a good leader, George," he looks up, notices the way his coach is eyeing him carefully. George hadn't realised he's been silent for quite as long as he probably has. "I know your teammates value your leadership as more than just a fly half, your club too."

"Thank you," George smiles sincerely, modestly.

They round off the meeting there after a few more menial details have been sorted and George slips from the room to get ready for training, all the confident swagger with which he first asserted himself ebbed into an odd confusion.

The rest of the squad have filled in during the time George has been gone and the lounge is now sufficiently full with both bodies and sound. From the doorway, George spots his club mates herded together a little ways off. He considers moving to catch up to them, considers even telling them what they're not supposed to know until this evening with the rest of the line-up announcement.

"Hello skipper," George jumps at the sudden interruption to his plans, outwardly squeaks as a hand lands with firm contact against his arse in a brief slap. The person laughs at his panic as he swings round to face the attacker with a floundering rage, batting the offending hand away from his posterior as he deepens his scowl, tries to cover the scorching red of his cheeks as a fierce anger.

He pauses when he sees Owen, has to roll his eyes at himself when he considers -who else would it possibly have been? The glower he'd taken split seconds to perfect falls away as he takes in the bright grin he's met with, the badly stifled laughter at his less than composed reaction. It's a chipper Owen, a happy Owen and yet -he knows?

"You know?" George asks, slightly baffled. He can't have been here long enough to have had a meeting, wasn't here before George's and the thirty second walk from Eddie's office to here isn't nearly enough time to have fitted one in after his own.

"Yeah, Eddie phoned last night, ran it past me and Dylan," Owen explains. George could almost face-palm, doesn't know why he hadn't instantly assumed Owen would know when Dylan already did. His emotions have been getting the better of his judgement all week and it's endlessly frustrating.

"And that's-" George pauses, ponders his choice of words as he makes them. "You're okay with that?"

"Sure," Owen shrugs still grinning at him. George studies him carefully, his own expression still pinched as he searches for any signs that this is forced, obligatory. Maybe it is, but as much as George thinks it probably ought to be, that no one should be quite this happy for their rival, Owen's never been good enough at masking those kinds of emotions.

Something in his look changes after the pause prolongs beyond a standard acceptable period, almost as though he's figured out George's processing. He rolls his eyes visibly before dropping the smile in favour of a fake pout. "Even if you have got me on the bench."

"Not my decision," George laughs, relaxing as he decides assuredly that this is genuine enough. It's pretty clear that Owen's okay with the switch up in captaincy, that he's happy for him even, but no player is content with being on the bench, even if it does only happen once in a blue moon. "Sorry about that," he qualifies, only half jokey.

"It's okay, you had to nab your jersey back sooner or later," Owen goes easily with the swing of the conversation into more than simple humouring. George can't help simmering smugly at the sentiment - _his jersey._ "Your family must be pretty happy. Fiftieth cap and now this as well."

"Uh yeah," George really does need to tell them now, it doesn't feel so wrong now he's sure Owen knows too, now he knows Owen sees it as good news. "I was going to text you too, but I wasn't sure if you knew."

"You still could've done," Owen shrugs once again, lips quirking in the corner, but the previous grin doesn't return. George raises an eyebrow at the blasé approach; that's not how they do these things anymore. Owen heaves a sigh, "I know we've been pretty professional about that kind of thing recently. I don't tell you, you don't tell me, yada yada, but we don't have to be, yeah? We were never like that through juniors or anything, and we both captained back then."

"It wasn't our job back then," George points out. It had felt like it though, both of them so serious about the sport, about pursuing it and making it their career. They'd been just as, if not more obsessed, just less contrived. "You're right, though, we could probably be less uptight."

"And probably should," Owen agrees.

George notices from behind Owen's shoulder that most of the team have started piling out through the back entrance, both of them having missed the cue with their failures to keep any sort of eye on the time. He's about to draw Owen's attention to it, move off to rejoin the back of the main herd. In his absence of attention he doesn't notice Owen moving first.

The arms come to wrap around his middle, tight and firm as they cross over at the back of his waist. George feels his chest being pressed into by the stable structure of another, feels the hunch of shoulders knocking into the front of his own, the protruding of hip bones poking into the softer flesh of his abdomen where they stand at a taller height atop of legs longer than his. Owen cheek brushes the side of George's temple, his mouth naturally sitting impossibly close to the shell of George's ear as he speaks.

"I'm really happy for you, skips."

Stood, stuck and still, George doesn't get the time to react before Owen moves away, turns and steps forward a few paces.

He looks back at where George still hasn't moved, familiar teasing smile taking over once again. "You coming then?"

Oh God, George thinks. This is never going to go away.       

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm stuck in post Six Nations lull it would seem; I was meant to write this over the course of the week then ended up cramming it almost entirely into one day -eek. I'm trying to immerse myself in the Prem all weekend to help, but the Leicester result last night and the fact I know Bath will lose tomorrow isn't doing me much good. Everyone please come and wallow with me. God I hate this time of year!


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> England 35 - 15 Japan

Running out at Twickenham is surreal. The sound of eighty-two thousand people has never felt less deafening, all lost to his ears as he takes in the sight; the sea of people, of fans, of his family, barely visible as dots, beaming at him. George bites his lip, can hardly control the smile, minimal yet awestricken. He lifts his arm, suddenly feeling so heavy under the pressure of limelight, gives a small wave. There's no team around him, not even behind him, he's all alone, he's at the liberty of the masses and yet he's never felt freer in a moment; at peace amidst the roar, alone in the crowd. It's just like the first time, only fifty times better.

The few seconds that it lasts feel like minutes, time slow and deliberate before he's joined by the others, before he stands tall and proud and belts out the national anthem with a renewed velocity, one that's been lost to him for a while.

When the whistle blows to signal kick off, when George drops the ball and send it flying down the pitch, he's contained, cool and collected. He feels like he's home again, at last, back where he should be when he should be. The serenity all but disappears in that one kick, leaving behind a lively effervescence; they have a job to do.

They start off brightly, Danny flying over the try line after just three minutes. George's heart pounds in his throat as he lines up his converting kick, quintessential in outlining his reliability for the rest of the match, tries to go through the motions of his set up as steadily as he would in a club game or on a training pitch. When the ball sails between the posts, George heaves in relief, confidence assured and instated.

The rest of the first half unfolds into something far less in their favour than the prelude of the earliest minutes, however. They manage to defend two penalty lineout resulting mauls well enough, but after conceding seemingly endless penalties they lose Jaime to the bin. George can feel his frustration growing as he watches Tamura slot Japan's first penalty kick, they need to get a grip on things -he needs to get a grip on things.

When not even five minutes later their defences fail at the scrum and Nakamura barrels his way through for the try, George knows that something isn't working, something needs to change. The added conversion doesn't help their cause much and suddenly they're losing at Twickenham to a second tier side.

He bashes through his talk in the team huddle, lets his irritation at his team's mistakes be known. With all the eyes on him, the weight of the situation really starts to set in, the importance of getting them back on track and into a comfortable lead. George thinks he understands what Owen had meant about the pressure now, can see why he wanted George on the pitch to help out with these speeches. This is his chance to prove himself and his leadership, but he's missing the prop of support bitterly.

Some of what he says seems to get through as a few minutes on they win themselves a penalty at the halfway line. Lagging by only three and desperate not to go in behind at halftime, George doesn't hesitate in passing the ball to Elliot. The ball sails over the crossbar and there's finally a little bit of breathing room as they draw level.

It doesn't last long, however as Japan are soon piling the pressure back on, making their way into England's twenty-two. George could almost scream when the Japanese captain goes over for another score, struggles not to as he confronts his halfback partner over his woeful attempts to tackle that lead to it. Blunders like this remind George just why he could never tire of playing alongside Ben.

This conversion doesn't make it, thankfully, although Japan counter the miss almost immediately, searching for a third try. When they lose the ball, George launches himself from a defensive stance into motion ready to begin a counter attack, a chance to get themselves back ahead as the clock ticks into the red.

His rage at Danny is only further aggravated when the scrum half opts to kick the ball from the field and allows the first half to be called as over. George sprints to the forming on-field huddle, furious and making no effort to hide it. It's futile, though. The first forty minutes are up, the longest he has played since June, the first shot he's had at captaincy, and they're down 10 - 15.

The first thing Eddie tells him after making his way down the tunnel is that he's bringing Owen on for the second half. That George is still captain, that he's still in charge of kicking, still ten, but that something else is needed.

Maybe George shouldn't be so relieved to hear it, should want to prove that he can do this without the addition of the one person who's been threatening his position all season. He can't though. Perhaps -and he hates the notion of it even in his head- but perhaps he's just too personally involved. Still, he can't help feeling that they need Owen out there if they're going to win this, he needs Owen out there.

They're just making their way back out of the changing rooms, post several less than impressed speeches, when Owen brushes towards him. George feels his hipbone being grasped, given a light squeeze.

"You're doing really well, skips," Owen tells him, low and hushed, before he falls back a few steps behind George. And just like that he's ready for the second half.

The half kicks off and, although it takes them a good fifteen minutes to get there, they're awarded a penalty and George narrows the scores as he slots the kick.

Minutes later, after several strong phases, Wilson slides over for the try and England take the lead once again. George pockets the extra two and finally, after an hour's worth of agonising game time, starts to sink into the tempo of the match.

They're awarded another penalty soon after and George bags the points, taking them more than a converted try ahead. It's less than comfortable, but it's stronger than any lead they've had all match.

That sought after comfort becomes assured soon after, however, when Cokanasiga flies over for his debut try. George feels his heart swell a little, proud of the young winger after working with him closely in the week, the very one who he'd helped settle in at the start of the autumn. It reminds George of the impact he's making, even when he's not been playing much, reminds him that he is useful and required -something it's been all too easy to forget recently.

George cements his usefulness further by slotting the converting kick, feeling an ultimate relief as they head into the final few minutes.

They finish the game off with a final try from Dylan after a lineout and, try as he may, the angle of the following kick proves too much for George and he misses out for the first time in the match. It's a bittersweet way to end, but George goes easily with the celebrations anyway, can dwell on their failures another time.     

There's not too long of a turn around after the game before George is being tugged away, shuffled into some conference room with his head coach and pushed up onto a small platform to sit idly behind a desk. He's done this a couple of times now, the last occasion being no less than a day previous, but the multiple scrupulous cameras, the ocean of journalists with their Dictaphones and microphones, its daunting doesn't dissipate.

Eddie hands him a bottle of water as they manoeuvre around each other to their seats. George grips it, lets his fingernails bite into the plastic and paper of the label. It's grounding, debasing to his nerves.

Thankfully, the main focus of questioning seems to fall on Eddie and George is happy to sit back and do little but listen, fatigue beginning to creep up on him, lethargy seeping into his joints. He obliges with the minor insight he's asked for, glazing over his view of the match in favour of discussing the honour of his fiftieth cap. It brings with it a re-intoxication of the exhilaration he'd felt before the game and George is glad when they move on from him, left alone to breathe through the giddiness.

At mention of Ashton and his injury, George has to bite the inside of his cheek, knows any hint of the threatening smirk would look too suspicious. He'd noticed the smug look on Owen's face during the match when the winger had had to leave the pitch. It's entirely unprofessional from both of them, deprecating to the team that they should feel this way about losing an impactful player, yet a prideful part of George, and presumably of Owen too, can't help feeling that he got what was coming to him. A calf-strain, Eddie says, hopefully not too serious. George can't agree.

The press conference wraps up quickly enough after that, George only having to bite his tongue once more when Eddie mentions Owen's impact. While George is fairly confident in his performance, in his control and management, he knows they owe a lot to Owen for the second half, the whole team. He can tell him as much privately, he has to remind himself, doesn't need to broadcast his lovesick appreciation through a bunch of articles he has little control over beyond his own senseless comments.

Afterwards, George is herded off by his family before he's had the chance to do much more than change his clothes. It's nice enough, exchanging opinions on the match with his dad, pissing off his mum and Connie by bantering with his brothers like they're still teenagers. He gets a good few minutes worth of baby cuddles before Kobe starts fussing; George hands him back to his sister-in-law readily, not fond of the way his heart starts brooding at the exposure to the domesticity. He's almost glad when his time with them is up and he has to make his way back with the team. It's precious time that he doesn't get enough of, but nevertheless it's an aching reminder of all the things he doesn't have.   

It bothers him throughout dinner, not enough of his own players seated around him to keep him distracted. It's a condition of his captaincy, he knows and he wouldn't complain, but it's hard not to get lost in his own thoughts when he can't understand a word of the language being spoken around him. There are a few moments of broken English that George happily engages in, and Leitch takes a good few minutes to discuss some of the key moments in the match with him. Still, he can't help feeling relieved when all food is finished with and it becomes apparent that the brunt of it is over.

He's just looking up, making to search for a suitable group of England players to escape to when he notices Owen already on his way over. He smiles at George when he sees that his trajectory has been spotted.

"Alright?" Owen greets, taking the now vacant chair next to George, angling himself so they can face each other.

"Knackered," George responds around an exhale. He twists his legs round in his seat so he can match Owen's angle, knocks their knees together at the proximity. "You?"

"Not too bad," Owen hums, holds their legs as they are, pressing firmly. "How's your family?"

"Proud," George's lip twitches as he says it, can't help the pride he feels himself just in acknowledging it. "You should've come and said hello, mum was asking after you."

"I would've done, sorry, I got dragged away," Owen apologises sincerely, but his expression tightens into a smirk. "Your dad wasn't so interested in where I was, then?"

George rolls his eyes.

"Still hates me?" Owen continues with a laugh when George fails to answer. 

"He loves you really," he retaliates, "just with all the... uncertainty around the number ten spot, he's -well he's not necessarily your biggest fan at the moment."

"You're dad's never been my biggest fan, and it's not about who's wearing what jersey either." Owen snorts, "I think he's still convinced I'm going to lead you astray."

"He never thought that, he was just protective," George defends, although he knows Owen isn't serious, knows him and his dad have always gotten along like a house on fire underneath the vigilant father routine.

"So was I," Owen reminds, and yeah, he was. George glances down to where their knees are touching, bashful at the memories; the way Owen was when they went to school together, as they went up through junior teams together, once George had joined the senior England team. "But they're good, yeah? Your family?" Owen checks, steering the conversation back on track.

"Yeah, everyone is all good. It was nice seeing Jacob," George assures, warm at the concern Owen feels for his loved ones. "And Joe and Connie came too, so I got baby cuddles."

"Don't, you'll make me jealous," Owen's own smile warming at the image. "How is he? Kobe, isn't it?"

"He's cute, that's about as much as I could tell you," George laughs, his knowledge on children utterly abysmal despite his, somewhat frequent, interaction with one. "Really cute."

"Broody," Owen remarks, smirking at George's slip into fondness.

"Not really," George scrunches his nose in distaste, can see the motion doesn't do much to alleviate Owen's amusement.

George looks away before the teasing can continue, glances over his shoulder. Not looking intently, George only catches a glimpse at first, but he re-asserts his focus, double checks. Yeah, he's definitely there, staring, ignoring whatever it is Curry is saying that has the rest of the group they're sat with in hysterics. He slants his head and doesn't avert his gaze despite being caught. Reaching down, he adjusts the icepack strapped around his leg underneath his suit trousers, stare still fixed, never wondering.

Contemplating staring him down, it's tempting, but George never gets the chance. Interrupted by Owen knocking his kneecap with his own, George breaks the stare, looks back to his friend who is sending him a questioning look. He doesn't answer, just twitches his head slightly to the side, motioning the subject of his diverted attention.

Owen glances over, ignoring George's unspoken attempt to portray a guise of subtly. "Oh," he says with a roll of his eyes, shaking his head as he turns back to George. "Just ignore him."

"Owen," George argues, forgoing any nickname in favour of his seriousness. They shouldn't be ignoring this.

"Yeah, I know," Owen waves him off, bites his lip. George can see this is getting to him, that it's more of a concern than he's been letting on. They haven't gotten round to talking about it again, not properly at least, not since Owen first implied that there was a problem. George sends another glance behind him, checks again.

Ashton, now happily chatting away, seems to have given up or been distracted same as George had. He peeks at George from the corner of his eyes, the smile around whatever it is he's saying turning slick, sly even. George feels something twist in his gut.

"Has he said anything to you?" George asks, refocusing on Owen once again, the tension set in his jaw slackening just a little.

"No, he never has," Owen explains. "He just says shit about me to other people. Seriously, don't worry about him, he's got no backbone."

"Says shit like what to other people?" George inquires further, unsettled by the vagueness.

"I dunno, just," Owen sighs, averts his eyes. George presses their knees together, firm and grounding, urging. "Some of the guys at Sarries told me he was using, like, slurs or whatever. It's not that big of a deal, not hate speech or anything."

"Slurs?" George is honestly a bit taken aback by Owen's nonchalant approach. For someone normally so impassioned, especially by things that mean something to him it's -odd. "That is a big deal, Owen. That's fucking disgusting."

"It's just ignorance, George," Owen huffs, his focus still wondering, but keeping his leg assuredly in place. "We deal with stuff like this all the time."

"That's more than ignorance and you know it," George scolds. This is more than Owen ignoring a problem, this is downplaying it, this is pretending it's something it's not, it's _defending_ it. George isn't about to let him get away with that. "'Pretending it's not there isn't going to make it go away' -how many times have _you_ said stuff like that?"

"I know, but what else am I supposed to do?" He can feel Owen getting heated, retaliating to the ferocity of George's own argument. George sighs, this is exactly what shouldn't happen.

"Talk to Eddie," George offers, relenting; they shouldn't let this _-him-_ divide them. "You should really get the coaches on side, get them to keep an eye out."

"Yeah except that kind of involves telling them why they need to keep an eye out and you know I don't want to do that," Owen scrubs his hand over his face, sinks back until he slumps fully into the stile of the chair. “I can handle it, it’s fine.” 

“It’s not fine, though, people saying shit like that is never fine and you should make a stand against it, you know you should.” George insists, leans forward, elbows digging into his thighs as he refuses to let the distance between them increase. “You could just tell Eddie that you’ve heard him use homophobic language, you don’t actually have to say it’s aimed at you, if you really don’t want to.”

“I haven’t heard it, though, I’ve only been told about it,” Owen is grasping at straws a bit, George just can’t tell why he’s so reluctant to address this. “And it would seem suspicious -me taking a problem with it- it would be bound to raise questions.”

“You’re the one who said you thought everyone knew about your sexuality anyway,” George points out more than a little confused by the contradiction to their previous conversation. “Eddie doesn’t really strike me as the kind of person to make those assumptions without you telling him outright. Even if he did, though, it’s not like you’re really trying to hide anything.” 

“No I’m not, but I’m not coming out either,” Owen announces as best he can with as hushed as the conversation has become. They’re on their own, set away from any other group -safe enough, but endlessly cautious. 

“You kind of are, though -by association,” George doesn’t want to assert his own aspersions or opinions on to how Owen is doing things, knows how personal something like this can be. “Look, however you want to do things -well it’s obviously all up to you, but don’t you think it would help? Like, I’d be much more comfortable knowing that players like Ashton weren’t just getting away with saying whatever they want to and I’m sure there are more guys than just us who would be pretty thankful too.” 

“It’s not my responsibility to take a moral stand, Georgie,” Owen disputes, but it’s gentle, void of all his previous vigour. George knows he’s in. 

“I know it’s not, better than anyone. I’d be over there confronting Chris myself right now if I thought we all had to put ourselves out there for each other when we’re not comfortable with it.” Appealing to Owen’s sense of community is bound to strike a nerve, George knows that, uses it to his advantage. “I am a bit confused as to why you wouldn’t want to, though, Faz. Like -correct me if I’m way off- but if you were comfortable enough to snog a guy in front of people who didn’t know you were bi, and rouse all this from Ashton in the first place, then surely telling the coaches about it in vague terms isn’t the scariest thing in the world.” 

Leaning forwards himself, well into George’s space, Owen finally reasserts his attention, looks George fully in the eye. It’s all George can do not to shiver under the intensity, heat prickling under the skin of his cheeks. 

“It’s not. It’s not really about that,” he sighs. “Sorry, I know I’m being difficult.” 

“You have every right to be,” George reassures, starting to feel slightly guilty for all his insistence. “I’m being pushy and I shouldn’t be -like you said, it’s not your responsibility.” 

“I mean it is to an extent -you know I’d never want it, him or any other idiot, having an effect on you or anyone else- I just,” he pauses, shifts, resets himself. “I know I’ve said this, but I can’t be bothered to hide anymore, I’ve given up caring about that. I just don’t feel I should have to explain myself either, I shouldn’t have to come out just because some guy or guys can’t keep their mouths shut.” 

“That’s just the way it is, though,” Owen rolls his eyes at that, and, yeah, George knows the feeling. Unfortunately, it’s not that simple. “You shouldn’t have to, you are right, but we live in a world where you kind of just do -to protect yourself and others. It’s shit, but nothing’s going to change just by you refusing help. Not what you want to hear, I know.” 

“Not exactly,” Owen groans. “When did you start speaking so much sense?” 

“Eh, you shouldn’t listen to me. It’s not like I’m making any moral stands -way too scary for me.” George chuckles, a little relief prevailing as the mood lightens slightly.

"If he says anything to me or I hear about anything else I'll talk to Eddie," Owen concedes. "I suppose it's not going to do any harm. But I'm not telling him I'm bi if I can avoid it -he can work that out for himself just like everyone else."

"It really will be best to get him on side," George promises, flashing a brief smile to help settle the conversation further. "Anyway, chances are he's picked up a nasty injury today and won't be playing for a while -what a shame."

"Yeah, I'm devastated," Owen grins sarcastically. "Whatever will we do without him?"

"I think big Joe has it pretty well covered, to be honest," George declares, impressed. "He had a massive game today."

"All the young guys did, it was good to see," Owen reflects and George could almost laugh at the way they're talking now -like proud seniors presiding over a young and upcoming team. It barely feels like yesterday that they _were_ the young and upcoming team.

"God that makes us sound old," George laughs, dropping his face into his hands to stifle the gales.

"Well I hate to break it to you, Georgie, but we are getting kind of old," Owen joins in, sniggering lightly at George's flush. "Late-twenties is getting on a bit in this line of work."

"Late-twenties?" George exclaims, offended, thwacking Owen on the arm for good measure. "Speak for yourself, babe, I'm still holding strong in the mids thank you very much."

"Did you just 'babe' me?" Owen demands suddenly. George freezes, hadn't even realised as the word had slipped free. He doesn't know why Owen's immediately following laughter is so relieving, thinks he should feel embarrassed at the sight of his delighted smirk rather than so reassured. They've alluded to far worse than a few pet names, George reminds himself, desperate for abatement from his propensity to over-think.

"Sorry," he manages to recover, grinds out a grin of his own. "I obviously go camp when I'm offended."

"Hey, I wasn't complaining," Owen beams, winking obnoxiously. George barely covers an outward groan -this is utter torture. "Didn't mean to offend you either, sorry."

"Yeah, well," George bumbles around the words a little, still set off-piste, curses himself for letting such a minor flirt knock him for six. "Back off my twenty-five, you old bastard."

"Not for much longer," Owen sing-songs, still smirking.

"A good third of a year," George argues, enjoying the light-hearted back and forth.

"Face it, Fordy, your youth is hanging by a thread. Mine's already dead and buried." It's a touch admirable, how easily Owen can talk about their advancing ages, how comfortable he can be with it.

They're nowhere near the end of the line in terms of their careers, but neither have a whole lot by means of a life outside of it. They're both painfully single, Owen admittedly so, but George is starting to discover how much it bothers him, too. Maybe it's just from having seen Joe and his family earlier in the day, maybe he really is a bit broody, or maybe it's just from spending time with Owen, but it's hard -accepting just how far he is from having any of that. Hell, he's a million bloody miles away. The thought is exhausting.

"Speaking of getting old," George sighs, his mood suitably killed. He seriously needs to get out of his own head. "I know it's early, but I think I might turn in. I'm shattered and I have to get up and do this live-stream thing with Jonny tomorrow."

"Fair enough, I might join you," Owen says, moving to stand, their knees clattering as he manoeuvres. "Walk you up?"

George nods and takes Owen's offered hand when it's given. He fights the part of him that desperately wants to hold on, wants to grip it in his own, wants to slide their fingers together, wind them around each other. Instead he retracts as soon as he's pulled into standing, quashes the dejection that bubbles in his stomach as Owen lets go.

They have to make their way around most of the other tables to get to the door, giving their excuses as and when they're asked for. George catches Ashton staring at the pair of them once again as they head out, his slimy smile too distinguishably contrasting to the uninterested looks of acknowledgement from everyone else not to be intentional. This time, George holds his own glare, firm and unrelenting as they pass his table by.

"I seriously don't trust that guy," George shudders as soon as they're free from the room, hurries to catch up the couple of steps Owen is walking in front of him as they turn to head up the stairs.

Owen sighs, lets his head rock back in a fatigue of his own. "Can we be done talking about this for now?" He sounds aggravated enough that George knows to back down. The years have taught him to pick his moments well when it comes to Owen, to take the signals to stop pushing.

"Sorry," George apologises quietly, not saying anything more, allowing room for Owen to make the next move.

"No, it's fine," he qualifies quickly, the backs of his fingers finding George's forearm, brushing briefly by way of sincerity. "Just- he's a waste of breath. Not worth it."

"Not worth it," George echoes with a nod of affirmation.

The situation worries him, even more than he's letting on. It had been easy enough to ignore before, the prospect of actual homophobia amongst his teammates, easy enough to pretend that ignorance is just that -ignorance. Perhaps it had been too simple to convince himself that the same guys who liked to use 'gay' as insult would stop the second they knew they had a non-straight player on the team. Wishful thinking as it were. He's never heard an actual slur being used himself, has been lucky in surrounding himself with the right people, and although he's always been circumspect, George definitely hasn't prepared himself well enough to deal with this, doubts Owen has either. Honestly, he's not really sure how they've gotten away with it for so long.

"Fancy coming in for a night cap?" George invites when they reach his door. "I have decaf tea."

It's not exactly the best hidden indication that he wants to carry the conversation on, hoping that the more private setting will aid Owen in opening up further. The subject isn't exactly a pleasant one, but George is unashamed in admitting that he appreciates the common ground it gives them, that he indulges the strength it's given their regenerating bond. He's happy to ignore the existence of the other wishful undertones that lie underneath the same invitation.  

"Like you'd need that to tempt me," Owen teases, ever relentlessly outrageous in a way that has George reeling. "Thought you were shattered?"

"I am," George shrugs, pathetic in his efforts to appear nonchalant. "Offer still stands, though. You'll just have to forgive me if I fall asleep on you."

"I think I could deal with that," Owen laughs, gesturing for George to open the door who is unable to hide his smile at the small victory. "Wouldn't be the first time."

"Shut up," George reprimands as they step inside. "Don't act like you don't love it."

"Never said I didn't," Owen hums, all low and allusive as he inches in closer to George, backing off again almost as soon as he's done so and settling down onto the bed, making himself comfortable. "Come on then, where's this decaf tea that sounds so brilliantly disgusting?"

It takes George another moment to move, trying not to get caught up on Owen's responses -the same as they've always been and as painfully meaningless as ever.

"I wanted to say," George starts when he finally manages to kick his brain into thinking as far as boiling the kettle. "Thank you for today -for saving our arses in the second half. Eddie only really addressed it as a normally substitution in the press conference, just discussed how Lozo must have felt about being brought off, but it was more than that -we really needed you out there."

"Well, I can't say I wasn't glad to come on," Owen takes the mug gratefully as it's offered, sinks back against the headrest as George takes the foot of the bed. "But you'd've been fine without me -for a bit longer at least."

"So humble," George grins at Owen's struggle with modesty. He's been brilliant all week, scarcely an ounce of arrogance prevailing as he'd settled into his role as a finisher. "You really did make all the difference, though. As much as it pains me to admit it, I think Eddie's feeling pretty assured in his choice for starting ten."

"If that was true then he wouldn't have put you out there this week," Owen refutes.

"Perhaps," George shrugs. "He told me himself he was looking to play a more tactical game, though -didn't exactly need to spell out that he doesn't trust me for more physical matches."

"He's started you against plenty of physical teams for you to know that he does," Owen stretches a leg out, kicks him gently in discipline. "He's just trying some new things out, it probably won't even last long. Autumn Internationals don't matter and all that, remember?"

"It's hard to remember that when you're barely playing in them," George grumbles, although he knows Owen is right.

"That's exactly what should make you remember," Owen consoles. "If these games actually meant anything, you'd be out there playing a full eighty minutes every week."

"Yeah?" George asks leadingly. He hadn't been fishing for compliments, had just been looking for a sounding board, but he's not going to rebuke the praise as it's offered to him.

"Yeah," Owen assures. "Just you wait for the Six Nations you'll be right back where we're meant to be week on week. I promise."

"Don't make promises you can't keep, Faz," George scolds without intention. He can't help himself from smiling, knows he shouldn't break the rules he's been learning to set for himself, but Owen's support makes it hard not to -not to let himself be optimistic.

"It's a good thing I'm not, then," Owen hums around the rim of his mug, taking a slow, deliberate sip and wriggling his foot again until it's positioned as he wants it, toes digging into George's thigh. "I promise."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've gone from a whole Saturday worth of Six Nations rugby to a whole Saturday worth of Premiership rugby and now a whole Saturday worth of European rugby all within three weeks. Someone send help!


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter inspired by the Stonewall campaign during the autumn internationals and partly based on an interview given by Sam Underhill explaining why he and many other players would be opting out of wearing the rainbow laces in the final game against Australia.

George is just heading back from his Monday morning meeting with Eddie when the packages arrive. He's on the bench again this week, dropped back down to what is steadfast becoming his well acquainted position. It's not that it isn't still bitterly disappointing, not that a week of high flying hadn't given him the small glimmerings of hope that he could end the autumn in the same way, but it doesn't sting like the first time -nor the second, or the third.

The shoelaces are shoved into his hands almost as soon as he's outside by a rather frantic looking staff member who hardly spares him a glance as she jogs away in search of other arrivals; the sheer volume of the piercingly bright laces spilling from her hand looking almost comical. George runs his own between his thumb and index finger.

They're thick, accommodating to the rainbow of colours they display, coarse and stiff from where they haven't yet been unwound since manufacture. A little bubble of nerves ripples in George's stomach at the prospect of wearing them, at what could be inferred from it. It's a ridiculous fear, he knows, knows that plenty of his teammates will be wearing them too, knows that whole other teams are showing the exact same support -a support that desperately needs to be shown. His heart still aches after hearing of the attack on Gareth Thomas, a twisted reminder of the cruel, prejudice world he lives in, cementing as to why he keeps himself so carefully hidden. Wearing these laces would be the most open show of solidarity he's ever given.

"Do they hurt anyone else's feet?" George attunes to hear Te'o speaking from a group of backs gathered just a short way away on the embankment next to the pitch. Some are sat, boots in hand, winding the new laces through, while others are already up jumping and skipping a little to test them.

"I don't know that they hurt," Jonny chimes in after displaying one of his perplexingly high knee tucks. He gives George a small greeting smile as he joins the group and takes a seat on the grass next to Joe to work on his own boots. "They're probably not the most comfortable things in the world. It's for a good cause, though, so I guess I can grin and bear it."

"You don't have to," Elliot says, just finishing off tying his own. "It's opt in-opt out, so you can wear them if you want, but you don't have to."

George can't help the spike of resentment he feels towards that, so contradicting to his own reservations. It has to be that way, should be that way, he knows that -everyone should have the freedom to choose where they show their allegiance, to have their own opinion the same way he does. That's not to say a belligerent part of him doesn't believe that those opinions should be the same as his own.

"Good because this -ouch," Te'o laughs. George can't help the way his shoulders stiffen in defence. He doesn't think it's any taint on Te'o or his views, and the fact that he's already tried the laces so readily should be testament enough. He just doesn't know anymore, though, his high alerts set on full after everything going on with Owen and Ashton.

"Mine are fine," Joe pipes quietly from next to him, stretching his legs out in front of him and wiggling his feet. George looks over, flashes an encouraging smile to the young winger where his head is ducked shyly. He tidies his own just tightened bows and stands, jogs the few paces down the embankment onto the flat of the pitch and -oh.

The new laces do feel a bit foreign, uncomfortable even. George hadn't expected them to actually feel much different, had thought the others were most likely overreacting, but he can feel what they were talking about. It's like when you're a teenager and you swap the laces out of your cheap trainers to make them look more like Nikes or Adidas and in turn make them dig into the bridge of your foot. It's not unbearable, but this isn't as simple as dealing with discomfort in favour of style for the shoes you walk to school in, even the slightest change can be completely offsetting to a player. It leaves a sour taste in George's mouth, unsure if he's disappointed or relieved -he hates that this gives him a way out, an excuse, that there's a big enough part of him that's weak enough to take it.

He does his best to ignore it, tries to revel in the warm sense of community instead, watching more and more of his teammates filter down onto the pitches, their own boots all suitably altered. Owen is grinning at him as he makes his way over surrounded by a gaggle of his club mates. George can't help beaming back, can't help thinking this is the first time he's ever felt so wholly comfortable on a pitch, so at ease with himself around others.     

Training with them only seems to highlight the laces' downfalls further, however. Not only are they very thick, biting through his socks, but they're long too. A lot of the guys have to re-tie them several times in just a couple of hours and George loses count of the amount of times his own get stuck beneath his studs. By the end of the session George is worried he may have done some damage to his metatarsals, or at least bruised his feet.

"Hello," Owen sidles up to him as they're making their way in for lunch, inserting himself between George and Ben.

"Hiya," George smiles, lets himself speak right over whatever it is Ben's complaining about, suddenly caring even less than he had done before. "How're your laces?"

"Really fucking uncomfortable," Owen laughs ruefully. "Seriously, who made these? They feel so -wrong."

"I know," George hums, shaking his head. "The one thing made for us to show our support to the community and they're such bad quality we can't actually wear them. I'm shocked."

Owen laughs dutifully, nods his agreement vigorously. Honestly, George had only been being half sarcastic. While he's not enough of a conspiracy theorist to actually believe they were badly made on purpose, it does feel like another perfect blow, the cruellest of ironies.

They make their way in for lunch together, avoid the big tables with the rowdiest groups in favour of the very end seats of a smaller one and allow others to come to them.

"Do anyone else's feet hurt?" Underhill earns himself an agreeable chorus from the rest of the table, looks almost shocked by the unanimous response. George could almost laugh; as bitter as the seemingly total failure of this campaign is making him, this is steadily becoming the mantra of the day.

"The amount I've heard that today," George imparts the thought, "I think maybe Stonewall should make it their slogan."

"It's such a shame," Sam continues, horsing into his meal and speaking mostly around a mouthful of food. "Like, I want to wear them on principal, but they're just such shit laces. I don't want to look like a homophobe by opting out, though, y'know?"

"You won't," George assures readily, maybe too readily. He bites his lip to conceal the wince, backpedals. "I mean, I'm pretty sure enough of us are going to opt out of wearing them, from what a lot of the guys are saying. I don't think people would assume the entire team is made up of homophobes."

Owen taps his ankle under the table, grazes his studs over the top of George's boot, over the offending shoe laces. George doesn't think he covered himself very well there -clearly the feeling is mutual.

"I dunno," Sam goes on, looking a little sceptical at George's reasoning. Yeah, George thinks, he'd probably feel the same himself. "I might say something, give an interview to explain maybe. It's just that it sounds like such a pathetic reason when you say it out loud."

"Maybe that's why you need to explain it," Jamie inputs, looking up from where he'd been fiddling with his phone. "People are pretty novice to this stuff -they're not going to get that things like laces could have such a big impact on your game."

"Do they, though?" Elliot questions. "We've all been wearing them today and I can't say I've noticed anyone playing any different than usual."

"Except for the fact we're all limping now?" Jamie teases, grinning. "I think they do, yeah," he continues. "Like, we're given all our kit apart from, what, our gum-shield and our boots? Those things are pretty personal and, as much as I support the cause, I don't really like anything messing with that."

"Yeah, like, if it was on our shirt or shorts or something it would be different, you wouldn't take any notice." Sam agrees.

"Doesn't that class as a political statement or something, though? So we're not allowed to do it." George rolls his eyes as speaks, the notion seeming even more ridiculous as he says it aloud.

"Something insane like that, yeah," Owen supports, sounding equally unimpressed. "How it's a political statement, or how this is any different I don't know. You're right, it is a shame, would've been nice to wear them."

"You're not gonna wear yours?" Elliot asks, surprised. George crunches his teeth harder into his lip -if that wasn't blatant, he doesn't know what is.

"Yeah I know, you'd've thought I'd be lapping all this up," Owen winks causing Elliot and Jamie to fall into a fit of laughter between them. Sam does look confused for a moment, unsure if it's his place to join, like an outsider witnessing an inside joke, but he soon follows suit. At the other end of the table, having refrained from most of the conversation in favour of talking between themselves, George notices Jonny give Ben a questioning look. He watches as Ben only shrugs, carries on eating his meal apathetically. Good lad, George thinks, he'll have to praise him for that later.

He moves his free foot, places it on top of Owen's where his is still pressed firmly atop of George's, grazes his laces in the same way as their feet form a strange little pile under the table. Owen might say that he doesn't care anymore, that he's stopped being bothered about who knows what -George isn't entirely sure that's actually possible. The confused reactions show that Owen had been somewhat wrong, that not everyone in the England circle _knows_ about his sexuality; not that George had been convinced of that for a second. Although there are some, it would be a much hotter topic of rumours and gossip if everyone was clued in.

"Okay?" George whispers when he's satisfied he's covered, Jonny drawing the attention to his end of the table with another topic of conversation.

Owen just nods, smiling. He looks genuinely relaxed, comfortable. George doesn't quite understand how, isn't sure he ever will, but it seems blissful, as though Owen is totally enraptured by talking so freely. Even if it is only in open insinuations, George can't help but envy it.

The euphoria in his expression dwindles a touch as his eyes wonder and George follows his line of sight over to the table next to them to where Ashton is less than quietly eating his lunch amidst a particularly boisterous group.

"It's not because of him, is it?" George checks, frowning, still mindful to keep his tone hushed. "That you don't want to wear them?"

"No, no, I wouldn't let him stop me, you know that," Owen assures. "Just," he twitches his eyes down to the floor, indicating, "look at his boots."

Again George follows Owen's gaze, frown deepening when he catches sight of the brightly coloured rainbow laces wound into Ashton's boots the same as everyone else. "The fuck?"

"I know, right?" Owen rolls his eyes. "I noticed it during training -I don't get it either."

"I swear he's not even meant to be playing this week, what with his leg and everything." George ponders. They should probably take this as a good sign, a sign that Ashton really is just an ignorant idiot, that he doesn't know the harm in using the words he reportedly does. Except that doesn't exactly feel all that plausible. "Do you think he felt pressured or something? Because everyone else is doing it?"

"Probably," Owen shrugs, prodding at the remnants of his meal. "Would make sense -I told you he has no backbone."

"Maybe he's one of those people who doesn't actually realise their prejudice," George half jokes. "Like, says he supports LGBT rights, but thinks we should stop being so sensitive when we take offense to being called f-" George stops himself. If it's not enough that he hates that word, even when used by someone who identifies as queer, being overheard using it would be pretty hard to explain. "Well, y'know."

Owen laughs lightly at his bumbling. "Yeah, maybe," he replies. "I could see him being that stupid, to be honest."

"Eh, stupid is too kind -just call him what he is," George grins. "A total wanker."

"Who's a total wanker?" Jamie cuts over Owen's responding laughter and George suddenly realises that he may not have been keeping his voice down quite as much as he thought he had, feels a flutter of anxiety at what else might have been overheard.

"Yeah," Elliot joins. "What are you two whispering about."

"Oh nothing," Owen answers, still chuckling slightly, all of the worry George feels at the interruption completely lost on him.

"Alright," Jamie drawls, not looking totally convinced. "I thought you were talking about Folau -I'm surprised no one's mentioned him already."

That elects an emphatic groan from just about the whole table. "Yeah, there's a reason for that," George grumbles, quiet enough to be ignored.

"I wonder if he's said anything," Sam ponders aloud. "Like, publically -I haven't heard about anything, but -this can hardly be making him particularly happy."

"Probably not," Owen offers lazily, leaning back in a languid stretch over the backrest of his chair. George tries pointedly to think about how not even this -talk of one of the most outwardly and unashamedly homophobic players in the sport seems to be able to strike tension through Owen's relaxed state- and not about the broad flex of his chest, the peak of exposure of his belly as his shirt rides up.

"I reckon he's been told to keep a low profile," Elliot inputs. "Can't imagine Australia's PR were too pleased with him last season, doubt they want to be dealing with anymore of his antics."

"Oh God, they must've had an absolute field day trying to clear that mess up," Jamie snorts. "Do you really think he would say anything, though?" He goes on, "like, this whole campaign has come about because someone was attacked -surely he's not stupid enough to comment badly on that."

"Mate, you really think he cares that Gareth got attacked?" Owen asks in mild rebuke. "He was stupid enough to say 'gays can go to hell' when his team came out in support of gay marriage, he's definitely stupid enough to comment on this."

"Can you say that was stupid, though?" Sam interjects. George feels his forehead crease into a frown. "I'm not saying I agree with him, obviously I don't, but he was speaking based on his religious beliefs."

"I see what you mean," Elliot nods, reconsidering. George's frown deepens. "Misguided, maybe, but stupid was possibly a bit harsh."

"Harsh?" George snaps, exasperated. He flushes a little at his lack of control, at the way the focus of the group is so suddenly drawn to him, but he's listened to too much of this, of people defending one of the worst comments he's ever had to read about from a player to care. "Come on lads, how many religious people do we all know, religious players even, who would never dream of saying something like that? Of thinking it, even. It's not an excuse, it will never be an excuse and even if he's not stupid for making comments like he has, he definitely _is_ stupid for thinking he can use the fact that he's a Christian as a defence for making them."

Owen is smirking at him like mad, Ben's not exactly hiding his smile either despite having refrained from joining at any point. It was a very riveted defence, too riveted perhaps and George can feel the weight of expectation on him to say something more, but -he can't. He feels exposed, uncomfortable.

"You're right," Jamie agrees readily. The cynical part of George wonders if it's just because Owen is there, if it's because he feels he has a point to prove in the wake of what he knows about his club mate. He lets that thought die before it can fully form, knows that he needs to. "People can't just go around using their religion as an excuse for hate -I think he's a moron."

"I didn't really think about it like that, sorry," Sam shrugs. No you didn't, George thinks somewhat bitterly, but allows his agitation to relinquish, unable to fault the flanker's earlier defence of the campaign.

"Yeah, when you put it like that harsh was probably the wrong word, sorry," Elliot apologises. "Pretty inspiring speech, though, Fordy, never knew you were such an advocate."

"Yeah, well," George lets his eyes flit to Owen, not long enough to be noticeable by the group, enough that Owen will know. He presses their feet more firmly together under the table, shrugs, "I have my reasons."

"You gonna wear those laces then, Fordy?" Owen presses his foot further where it's sandwiched between George's own, makes clear his appreciation even as he moves the conversation on. "Might get a chance to shove them in Folau's face."

"Not sure I'll get much of a chance from the bench," George jokes, huffing a light laugh to cover the wobble in his voice, unrelenting from his rant. Owen frowns at that -George guesses he didn't know about his drop back down to the bench yet, the same way he hadn't before New Zealand. He moves on before he can get caught on the point. "Maybe if I get used to them. Have to agree they are pretty uncomfortable, though."

Everyone seems happy enough to leave the subject there for the time being, going easily with the change when Ben and Jonny pipe up from the other end of the table leaving Owen and George without the key focus of conversation falling on them. It suddenly feels a little easier to breathe, George realises, can only watch enviously as Owen's relaxed aura only continues to exude, unhindered.

George has never thought he could do it, be open in the way that Owen is -even as he chooses to keep the finer details hidden- but he seems so comfortable where George is still feeling panicked in a fear of having revealed too much. Perhaps he could, he doesn't know, but little moments, comments like the one Owen shared with Elliot, they don't seem so difficult.

"You alright?" Owen retracts his foot only to prod at George's leg with it. "You look like you're a million miles away."

"Yeah, sorry," George shakes his head, coming to and retracting from his thoughts.

"Right, come on then," Owen insists, moving to stand. "I'm done for the day, need a shower before my meetings. Fancy a chat?"

That's something they've done for years, since sharing rooms in junior camps, young enough that they could talk for hours, still learning about the other, sitting on the other side of the door and talking even while the other showered. It progressed to sitting in the bathroom, back turned or obscured by the shower curtain, until it became the complete lack of concern for full frontal nudity that it is today. It's where the most nothingness chats occur, where the most serious chats occur. They haven't done it in months, though, over a year probably, no time for that closeness, _intimacy,_ not with the way last season had treated them, treated everyone.

"Sure," George tries his best to sound blasé, knows it hasn't worked from the soft smile Owen returns him.

"So," Owen starts once they reach his and Dylan's shared room, gathering his towel and shower gel from his bag. "You went in on those guys when they started talking about Folau, not like you to be so feisty."

"Don't, I'm still recovering," George dismisses, can see from the concern it spreads over Owen's face that he won't be getting away with it. He ducks under Owen's arm as it holds the bathroom door open for him, hops up onto the counter, feet dangling. "And -it needed to be said, just kind of wishing I could've found a less obvious way to say it now."

"No one will have thought anything of it, not of you at least," Owen assures, beginning to strip himself of his clothes. George has to avert his eyes, not trusting himself not to stare. They've literally done this for years, he's been seeing Owen like this for years, but things feel so different now. He hates this sudden attraction, hates this crush; he needs to find a way to shake it and fast. The fact that baring witness to Owen getting naked is not the best way to do that is one he's all too willing to overlook.

"I do know that really, realistically speaking," George sighs, partly out of relief as Owen steps behind the shower curtain. "There's just this part of me that will always be worried that, like, if I even comment on anything to do with the community that all of sudden everyone's going to be thinking 'oh George is obviously gay' and I know it's stupid, but as much as I try not to care I just -can't not."

"It's not stupid," Owen scolds gently. George can't help watching the way his silhouette moves, the bold, harsh outlines of his body even as he talks so softly. "You can't force yourself not to feel anxious about these things, it just comes with time -it will get less and less."

"It never has, though," George complains. "The last person I ever came out to was Ben when I was sixteen and I fancied him -God only knows I've changed since then," George shudders, unable to help from laughing slightly, despite himself, as Owen does. "Before that was my family -in the vaguest terms imaginable- and before that was you. And you told me you were bi first so that barely even counts because I never would've made the first steps. I watch you be so open about it now and I just think how much I want to be able to do that, but how can I when I get into a panic anytime I think about even showing support for the community?"

"What I'm doing is not the same as coming out, though, and trust me it feels completely different to the crippling fear that actually telling people about your sexuality can cause," Owen says. "You don't have to say the words, you don't have to confirm or deny anything, you can make things as obvious or unobvious as you like -it's still all up to you, you just don't have to hide. If anything it feels kind of empowering."

"If someone were to ask you outright, though," George wonders, knowing that at some point it must be unavoidable. "What would you say to that?"

"It has happened -at Sarries- and I've told them it's none of their business," Owen tells him. "To be fair they normally ask if I'm gay, so I just say no, but they know I can't be anyway because I hook up with enough girls for it to be pretty obvious that I must be bi or something along those lines."

"That's fine for you, yeah, but it would be different for me," George points out. "If I were to start doing what you're doing, dropping hints or actually using the male pronoun when I talk about relationship stuff and someone asks me if I'm gay, then I would have to outwardly lie and there'd have been no point in the first place."

"You wouldn't have to lie," Owen soothes. "You can tell people to mind their business, Georgie."

"That's as good as confirming it, though!" George exclaims, beginning to feel exasperated. For someone trying to talk himself into this, he's doing a good job at talking himself out of it.

"In their eyes, maybe," Owen hums patiently, unfazed by George's outburst. "But what does that matter when you'd be making little effort to hide it in the first place? Anyway, George, you really don't have to do this, you don't have to try and force yourself just because it works for me."

"It just -I want to. You seem so relaxed with it all, like, you seem so happy and I want that," George admits plaintively. "And the little stuff, like the way you reacted to Elliot asking about whether you'd be wearing the laces -part of me thinks I could do stuff like that. I know that's a complete contradiction to what I've literally just been saying -confusing, sorry."

"A little, but you're just going through the motions with it -I've been there," Owen comforts, but edges it with warning. "It was a fortunate group, you realise that? There's still the issue with guys like Ashton, there are bound to be others who take a similar stance, a more severe one, even."

"No I get that, and I couldn't do the whole team or anything," George almost can't believe he's talking like this, that he's actually considering something like this. The idea terrifies him, but he can't help the way he wants it, craves the feeling Owen clearly seems so freed with. "Just -with mates maybe, perhaps just at Leicester."

Owen switches the water off then, "towel?" He requests, poking his head around the fringe of the plastic curtain, short, wet hair standing in spikes where he's pushed it back from his forehead. As he passes a towel to him, George is hit with just how domestic a scene this is, how warm of an image Owen is in this moment. They've done this a lot, but he's never realised, never felt it before. It feels so wholesome, so pure it and it makes George's head spin.

"This is still big, though," Owen picks the conversation back up, stepping out of the shower with the towel held around his waist, water still dripping from his hair, catching in cascades down his chest. George bites his lip. "You really don't have to force yourself if you're not ready, even just with mates."

"I know," George assures again, tries to shrug, tries to look as unbothered as he feels scared at the prospect. "Chances are I won't, I'll say I will and then I'll back out, just go on pretending that I like girls but I'm not into girlfriends -can't help thinking that it's time to start growing up a bit, though, y'know?

"What do you mean?" Owen's asks, slightly more distant as he works on rubbing moisturiser into his skin.

"Like," George sighs, struggles to think of how best to phrase it. "I've never really thought about it that much before now, but recently, I dunno. Seeing Joe getting on with his life and having kids and stuff, I didn't really know that I wanted it, but I do. And if I want that -if I want to settle down and stuff- well it's obviously going to be with a guy, so the 'never telling anyone I'm gay' thing kind of won't be an option anymore."

"You sound like you've got someone in mind, Fordy -talking like that," Owen grins, turning to face him, leaning against the counter. "Anything you want to share?" He taunts.

"Shut up, it's not that," George shoves him lightly, pauses only momentarily to dwell on the fact that maybe it actually is a little bit like that. "I know that would involve actually coming out properly, even publically eventually, but I feel like this would be a good place a start -a way to ease up to it."

"I get that," Owen admits, tease fading. "Like, when I was younger -and I hate myself for this believe me- but, I always used to tell myself that I'd just make myself end up with a girl, cause it would be so much easier and that way no one would ever have to know about me and none of this would be an issue. But some of my best relationships have been with guys and yet they always seemed to end because it had to be kept hidden -I guess I just started to realise that it's so not worth sacrificing that stuff because of what other people might think of you."

"And here I was thinking you just couldn't be arsed with keeping the secret," George huffs a short laugh. George isn't sure whether it's good or disastrous for him to know that Owen has been opening up like this because he sees settling down with a guy as such a strong possibility, sees it as something he wants.   

"That too," Owen smiles, lets it linger there for a moment, just looking at George, the space between them minimal. "Come on," he breaks eventually, pushing himself away from the counter. He extends a hand to George, lets him hold it as he hops back down to solid ground, gives it a gentle squeeze before releasing.

When they make their way back out into the bedroom, Dylan is waiting perched on the end of one of the beds with his towel next to him, scrolling through his phone as he waits. George has a second of fret that he's heard, seriously doubts the viability of the door as a sufficient barrier to keep their interaction muted. He lets that wash over him, though, knows he needs to. The anxiety still sinks into his gut, George doesn't think that will ever change or go away, but he refuses to allow it to encompass him. It doesn't matter, he thinks.

The look of bewilderment Dylan gives them as he looks up, as he registers the two of them coming out the bathroom together, makes George fairly certain he has nothing to worry about anyway -he hasn't heard a word.

"I'm not even gonna ask," Dylan concedes after a moment's look of perplexed questioning. He stands, grabs his towel and marches past them into the bathroom. "Your friendship is weird."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello from Twickenham! I've spent the afternoon so far biting my nails over Bath, now off to the pub to bite my nails over Leicester -I'm not going to have any left at this rate!


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> England 37 - 18 Australia
> 
> I've only proof read this once (blame The Masters being on) so I apologise for any mistakes. I'll hopefully go over for a post-published edit at some point.

From the sidelines, George feels jittery. His leg is bouncing ten to the dozen where he's leaning forward on one of the bench's sticky plastic chairs, the skin on the back of his twitching thigh peeling away from the dew dampened seat every time he lifts it up only to drop it back down again. The unpleasant, slightly uncomfortable feeling is nowhere near enough to make him stop, though, his nerves edging to get the better of him as he fidgets relentlessly. He doesn't know why he's so nervous, Australia have shown nothing for them to be nervous about for their whole campaign, for the whole season -hell, not even since the World Cup three years ago. George scowls at the memory, the bitterness he still feels at the ancient disappoint enough to make the hairs on the back of his neck stand up even today.

This match could either make or break England's autumn, George realises the reason for his nerves now, an autumn he's been far less a part of than he would have hoped, the last autumn before the next World Cup, before a Six Nations where they so desperately need to redeem themselves after such an awful previous year. Shivering, he leans forward, wraps his arms around his chilling torso, cold despite the cocooning presence of the large, thick coat and watches as Peyper sounds his whistle, as the ball soars into the air.

It's a fiery first two minutes, and George is relieved to see his team bursting out of the blocks so quickly and effectively, utilising mistakes and winning the put in at a scrum in the Australian twenty-two after just two minutes. The England forwards batter the Australian's backwards a good metre before Wilson is plucking the ball up from between the second rows' feet and shipping it out to Ben. George's heart jumps into his throat as he watches two of his club mates combine with such ease, Jonny receiving the pass and charging the few remaining feet to the try line. He jumps up in a roar of celebration with the rest of the bench. They couldn't have gotten off to a better start.

Despite the near impossible angle from all the way out on the left wing, Owen slots the converting kick neatly between the uprights. George can't help his own miniscule celebration at that, his hand squeezing together into a fist as he grins towards his rivalling fly half.

Australia retaliate just a few minutes later, George knowing the abilities of his Leicester teammate well enough to be sure of their responding three penalty points before Matty has even lined up the kick. It doesn't appear to matter too much, however, as England are back to demolishing the Australian defences just moments later, Cokanasiga making an impressive run, bright, rainbow stripped laces blaring as he does so. As warm as it makes George feel to see, it's a dismal reminder of just how plain his own are -the change in feeling in his boots, the daunting of a public support he's just not quite ready to show proving too much.

He watches as Owen sets up for a penalty kick to distract himself, carefully studies every piece of his routine as though he doesn't know it like the back of his hand already. He watches the ball sale over, taking the score to a more comfortable 10-3.

It's a relief that's unfortunately short lived, and George watches in dismayed frustration as a bout of sloppy England passes finally results in a quick intercept from the Australian scrumhalf. The ball ends up in the hands of Kerevi who chucks it blatantly forward to Haylett-Petty who dots down for the try. George rolls his eyes, waits patiently for Peyper's whistle to call the knock on. It never comes, though, and George is left in a state of shock horror as he watches the South African's arm sail up into the air with a sharp blow of his whistle to signal the score.

The decision is ridiculous, both teams clearly know it as Matty rushes forward to line up the conversion before anything can be overruled. George has a moment of outlandish petty petulance where he considers joining in with the jeers of the crowd, staring up at the big screen to see the travesty again.

Luckily, this seems to catch the ref's attention and he steps in front of Matt just before he can take the kick, calling time off. George sighs, relieved -if this doesn't go their way then there's no other decision that ever should.

The try is disallowed and the fright seems to have sparked a fire back into the team as they launch a new phase of attack, forcing the Aussie's into uncomfortable positions and precarious tackles until one of the locks, Rodda George thinks, lands a dangerous shot on Elliot. Owen slots the resulting penalty kick and provides them a little more breathing room.

It's only three minutes later, however, that it becomes apparent it was all for nothing. The ball is somehow shipped into Folau's arms, the huge gap in England's line so obvious from where George is sitting, so obvious to the controversial fifteen, too, as he starts charging through it. George winces as he sees Owen dive for him, forced into a tap tackle that George knows from experience must be so painful. More painful, though, to watch Folau of all players merely brush it off, keep his run in order to slam the ball down under the posts. With Matty's conversion bringing the score to a close 13-10, it's the last thing they need so near to the end of the half.

George doesn't think his leg has relented in bouncing for the whole of the half, surprised the muscles aren't already exhausted as they try to see the clock out. The ball in Australian hands is not what he wants to see, but his teammate's defences appear to be holding strong enough.

He has to bite his lip to prevent himself from laughing as he watches Owen's cheap shot on Rodda, rolls his eyes at the responding mild heckles from what few Australian fans there are in the crowd. Not that it looked the best, and it probably was leading with the shoulder just a touch, but it had nothing on the controversial hit he made against South Africa -George's opinion cemented as the ref waves to play on. It was most likely a curt little response for the lock's earlier hit on Daly. George smiles -Owen really does look out for his team.

As much as George is sure that was right not to be a penalty, however, he can't deny the obvious offside that eventually has Peyper's whistle blasting. Cursing, he stands, readies himself to head into the changing rooms for halftime. The clock is in the red, damn it, and yet he has to stand and watch as Matty takes the kick, as he levels the scores. Australia have shown them very little to be nervous about over the last three years. A sinking feeling in George's gut has him praying they still don't today.

George trudges down the tunnel with Manu, the bench making their way in ahead of the fifteen still involved in a frantic huddle on the field. It's just a review of their first half mistakes, the tactics for the next forty minutes to be discussed with the whole team once they make it to the changing room. It's nothing George needs to be a part of, and yet he can't help wishing that he was, wishing that he was out their listening to Owen's speech, offering his own input.

He can't deny that it's inspiring, listening to Owen's speeches. For a man who doesn't have the most apt way with words, although he is steadily improving, he just seems to know all the right things to say, all the things that make George _want_ to play better -it becomes less about winning and more about performance, personal and as a team. Sometimes he stumbles over his words, can't quite form fully coherent sentences, but it's coherent enough to the lads, always gives them the kick they need; it had gotten them through the tour of South Africa and it will get them back in the game today.

The team pile into the changing room at a steady pace just minutes behind George and the rest of the lads on the bench. Owen leads the pack, still speaking fervently to Slade and Te'o who are following closely, listening intently. Amicable though it is, George can see the glint of something more in the set features of Owen's face -right now he's their leader and little more.

"We've been okay at the breakdown," George can hear him saying now as he comes in closer. "Which is good because that's definitely something that let us down last season."

He smiles at George as he takes a second to look away, his face softening entirely for a second before he's fixating again, addressing the team more fully as they pour in through the door, start the beginnings of a huddle.

"Our set piece is good, too -especially the scrum, we just need to keep the discipline there and not let it slip," Owen slots himself in next to George, throws a low arm around his waist as the huddle tightens and completes. "Open play has been a bit sloppy at times, though, lads. We were really lucky for that forward pass off the back of Genia's interception otherwise we'd be down points wise right now."

Part of George wishes he could be jealous of him, of Owen getting to give these speeches and assert such a leadership, of just how closely he can get a room of rowdy, adrenaline-high rugby players to listen to every word he's saying. George had relished in getting to do this last week, loves every moment of leadership he gets at his club, but Owen is made for this in a way he's not.

"Look, I'm not gonna stand here and say that being level at halftime is a good place to be, it's not, we all know it's not and we all know we're capable of better," Owen is so easy to listen to, that's the thing -every word has a purpose, the semantics so clear. "So let's go out there in the second half, tighten our defences and our discipline, fire up our attack and focus on playing the best rugby we can."

"This'll be our... our-" Owen pauses a stutter in his throat.

"Sixth," George supplies quietly, unthinking from next to him, knowing exactly what Owen is trying to say.

"Sixth consecutive win over Australia," Owen tugs George a little closer to him, hand rubbing the small of his back in silent appreciation. George ducks his head, wills himself not to blush. "But that's only if we pull it back. We can win this, lads, I'm sure of it, so let's go and do it."

Yes, Owen may stumble a little over the actual words, but it hardly bares to notice behind the impact of his words. He may appreciate it, but George knows he never needs him to help him, not really -doesn't even need Dylan to step in as a co-captain half the time. George has known Owen as captain since he first started playing international rugby over a decade ago. This is what he was born to do.

Quieting down to let Eddie give his own speech, Owen hauls George in closer again, so close the sides of their bodies are almost plastered together. It's warm and assuring, but more than that it's invigorating.

By the time he gets back out to the sidelines of the pitch George still feels jittery, but all the nervous energy is gone. Now he's determined to get out there and play, to play the best rugby he possibly can. It's agonising to sit back on the bench and watch as the second half kicks off -he's desperate to get out there as soon as he possibly can.

As it is, George has to settle for merely watching again, watching as his team immediately heed Owen's advice, watches as Elliot receives a beautiful little pass from Owen, watches his impressive run towards the try line, watches as the fullback throws himself over for the score. He watches as Owen sets up for the conversion, watches it sail over the post, itching with desire now, with a vexatious yearning for it to be him out there, making a difference, an impact.

The voracious buzzing he feels seems to be vastly shared amongst the team and George is forced to watch as it takes over for some minutes and play becomes scrappy and disorganised. It's merely a saving grace that the Australian defence matches their poor efforts, that Cokanasiga finally manages to find the gap he's been searching for the whole match. No one can catch him once he's away, not even Folau managing to match his pace leaving him grappling at the laces that must cause him so much offence as Joe goes over for a score. It means the world to him, to all of them, so visibly as a number of the forwards come clattering over the top of him, George yelling his own delight from the sidelines. Owen nailing the following kick only grounds things further, pulls them two converted scores out in front.

A good few substitutions are made then, the coaches clearly picking up on the need for fresh legs after such an unsystematically won try. George shuffles forward, hangs off the edge of his seat as he waits for the game manager to call his name, his fingers digging into the meat of his own thighs in ill-concealed longing. It doesn't come though, even as Wigglesworth hops up from next to him, as an exhausted Ben takes his place -still not George, not needed yet, not wanted.

Ben clasps him on the shoulder as play restarts again, squeezes progressively tighter until George relinquishes his hold on himself. As well as Ben may know him, it is a little disconcerting to know that his disappointment is so obvious, his irrational fears so visible. He will get minutes, he tells himself, Eddie always uses his subs, is known for the influence of his finishers.

Another uproar from the crowd has George turning his attention back to the field just in time to see Joe breaking away in yet another staggering run, zipping past defenders, outrunning them yet again. George is so certain he's in for another try, so ready to jump up out of his seat in celebration. The young winger is mere inches from the line when he's eventually brought down, any England support just a touch too far away, no one quite able to keep up. Teeth gritted, George watches as they do their best to recycle the ball, as they try to pick-and-go to no avail. Peyper's arm coming out in an advantage is relieving, the sound of his whistle necessary, and honestly George is glad when Owen makes the sensible choice, lines up the posts. This will take them almost unbeatably ahead, so close to victory.

For ten arduous minutes after the kick goes over George is left, sitting and waiting, looking on as things plateau into little more than an aerial kicking game. There's scarcely six minutes left when he finally hears the game manager call his name, springs out of his seat almost embarrassingly eagerly. Ben gives him a light pat on the back of the thigh before George is jogging onto the pitch, passing a retreating Te'o with a brief high-five. This is it -the last few moments of the autumn campaign, his last chance to prove a point.

With Owen's words ringing in his ears, his demand that they play their best possible rugby, his promise that George will earn his place back on the starting fifteen in time for the Six Nations, he takes the restart.

Somehow, the ball ends up in their possession, booted miles downfield into their twenty-two. Forwards combine in their numbers, drive the ball on even further until they're finally stopped just a few metres short. The Australian defence is exhausted, George can tell, knows that with just the right clinical moves, a speedy pace through the phases of play, they'll be in for sure.

The pass from Wigglesworth is coming towards him, Australian players already moving in as lethargic as they may be. It's too high, George has to jump, both feet rising off the ground. The move gives him little time to react, the Aussie defenders encroaching ever closer. Part of him has a split second of enthused arrogance, assured that he could dodge his way around them, that he could make the score himself -nothing could be a bigger impact a mere minute off the bench.

His reflexes are working against him, years of precisely practiced motion taking a hold before any other part of him has the chance. Unthinking, without so much as a glance, so undoubtedly trusting that he's there, waiting, ready, he passes the ball to Owen.

The gap really is there for him and George has to pause, watch as Owen flies in between the defenders, sprints over the try line with an effortless looking ease. This has to be it now, totally secure in their win.

Manu is up behind Owen in seconds, hauling him to his feet and George is there too, he suddenly realises, grabbing Owen in a hug from the side. There are several arms and bodies in the way, Manu's imposing form still holding tight, Elliot joining on the other side and then Wilson is pressing himself in behind George as well until George is sure he's about to be crushed by the weight of at least half the bloody pack.

There's one arm around him, though, one hand pressing into the small of his back and keeping him centred, still. Another arm encompasses him, hauls him in close to the body in the middle of the tight cluster. A head drops in against his neck, warm breath puffing against the sweat-cooled slick of his skin and he is squeezed until he feels the air release from his pinched lungs. They're still entirely surrounded, but this feels like their moment and their moment alone.

Reluctantly, George has the sense to pull back as the group around them begins to disband, lets Owen jog away to convert his own try, to bring the score up to an immovable 37-13. 

The clock is just minutes away from ticking into the red as Matty takes the restarting kick. England gather, they kick. George can tell just how tired the legs of his teammates are, but still they manage to make it up in defence as the ball is taken by the Australian's, forwards coming in to counter ruck as best they can upon eighty-minute exhaustion. Even many of the fresh legs aren't so fresh anymore.

As soon as the ball ends up in the arms of Haylett-Petty, George knows the match isn't over just yet. He jogs backwards, sets himself up as deep as he can, last-chance defender, and watches from a distance as Owen goes for the tackle, as he slips, misses, as the Australian winger keep going, keeps dodging through until he's coming straight at George.

George doesn't quite know how he misses him, doesn't have a moment to curse himself for it as the attack keeps going. He tracks back, tries to run the winger's inside line, tries desperately to get in a good enough position to launch a half decent defensive tackle. Hughes and Wigglesworth bring him down before George gets another chance. He wants to let the feeling of uselessness engulf him in that moment, but still he _can't,_ still he has to keep defending.

Pouncing on the supporting player the second he picks and goes with the ball is his last chance to show any worthwhile defence this match, this autumn. Determined not to leave the critics with anything to maul him over, George pulls him down, uses his whole body weight to drag him to the ground until he's pinning George to the floor.

He could almost groan when he hears the ref's bark of "away", knowing that it would be a nigh on impossible task to get out from under someone several stones heavier than himself. They're right in front of the posts, though, the clock run down all the way, he can't be the one to give away a penalty now. George really does groan when he starts to move, rugby league wriggles in a way he hasn't done since he was thirteen.

It's agonising to stand only to see that it's all been in vain, to heave himself up off the floor just in time to watch Folau go over in the left corner for the score. Folau _again._ George wishes more than ever that he was wearing those laces, that he could go over there and kick the smug fullback in the face with them. Instead he has to settle for watching Matty miss the final kick, for allowing himself a little empathy for his club mate amidst the disappointment that they couldn't have ended on a better note.

George is just starting up a conversation with said club mate, just about to offer his commiserations when he's interrupted by a great lump on his back. It's Ben, jumping up using the backs of George's shoulders for leverage, clearly done with his own handshakes now. George flashes Matty a mournful smile as he's pulled out of their brief conversation by the overzealous scrumhalf, turns to eye him in agitation.

"Sorry, mate," Ben brushes past him before George has the chance, swooping in to give Matt a quick hug. "Tough loss."

"Cheers, mate," Matt nods sorrowfully, smile brave but downtrodden. George can't help but feel for him, knows the feeling all too well of ending a bitter campaign in an even more bitter way.

"You heading up home tomorrow, then?" George tactfully swerves the subject round, relieved when he sees the Aussie's expression perk up at the distraction.

"Yeah first thing -unless there's anything Cheiks wants me for," Matt says. "Thought I might go to the game, you guys want to tag along?"

"Sure, I'll be there," Ben agrees readily. "The only thing I like more than watching us beat Sarries is beating them myself."

"That's pretty wishful thinking, mate," George laughs, patting Ben's shoulder. "I might come, yeah."

"Might?" Ben snorts, rolling his eyes playfully. He turns back to Matt, points mockingly back towards George with his thumb. "As if he's gonna have anything better to do."

"Piss off," George complains, giving him a shove and whacking Matt on the arm for good measure at his responding cackle. He can't help joining in with the laughter, though, the easy familiarity of banter too hard to resist. Over Matt's shoulder, he sees Jonny approaching with Owen in toe, allows his laughter to die down as they draw near, tunes out Ben and Matt as he softens his smile.

"Alright?" George greets as Owen wraps him in a quick hug, congratulatory, trivial. Owen simply grins in response, cocks his head in the direction of the tunnel where most of the players are beginning to emigrate. "Done with your media?" George enquires further.

"Not quite," Owen huffs grumpily, but George can tell it's put-on. "Have to go and lift this bloody trophy now."

"Oh what an effort!" George mocks. They start to pull away from the Leicester group, make their way alone to the fringes of the pitch.

"I know," Owen grins with a laugh, voice dripping with delighted sarcasm. "You know what it's like, all this skipper malarkey -never get a bloody break."

They're joined by Will Genia then, the Australian scrumhalf making his way up behind them, slotting in between them, separating them as they carry on the gentle saunter as a trio. Owen makes a point of engaging lightly with him, of complimenting his contributions, commiserating his loss. George obliges, adorns a wry smile, laughs lightly along where appropriate, but it's twisted with a distain in his gut. A rapid, irrational jealousy suddenly springs out of nowhere at the interruption to his and Owen's interaction. The progression is slightly blindsiding.

It's frustrating to be split before they can talk further and George knows this is so irrational, knows he'll see Owen and will talk to Owen for hours after this, but he can't help it. He wants more than a quick hug, more than the briefest of conversations which never got beyond the point of inconsequential banter. George feels ridiculous, feels more ridiculous as he glares into the number nine on the back of Genia's shirt while he walks away.

Before George can turn back to him, can immerse himself in the presence of Owen once again, the other fly half is being tugged away, grabbed by his co-captain and pulled in the direction of the media stands.

"What's wrong with you?" Ben nudges his shoulder as he finds his way to the line formed by the rest of the team as they begin to applaud a more than defeated looking Wallabies team into the tunnel. George just shrugs, turns away from him when the Aussie's have passed, looks towards his captains.

By this time, Owen and Dylan have made their way up onto the makeshift podium, have shaken the hands of the presenting ambassadors. They hold the intrusively large glass trophy between them, lift it high to a chorus of deafening cheers from the crowd around them. George can't help the swath of nostalgic memory that floods him, the warm tingling in his stomach as he recalls the way it felt to be in Owen and Dylan's very position, lifting the cup with Chris Robshaw to his side, relishing in a victory over the Barbarians after such a difficult last season at Bath. He thinks that maybe this is when he should feel jealous, but he doesn't. Owen is grinning right at him. George can't help beaming right back.

"Nothing," he tells Ben honestly. "Nothing at all."

"Okay," Ben draws, eyeing him sceptically but he's smiling too, relishing in the win. "Come on," he indicates to where the team have started to filter inside. "I want a beer."

The changing rooms haven't quite become rowdy when they reach them, although George suspects it won't be too long. Raucous festivities have never exactly George's favourite way to celebrate, but he guesses it's unavoidable, thinks maybe it should be after such a successful campaign -especially following the misery of last season. Nevertheless he takes the minimal opportunity for some slight peace and quiet, turns down the small can of lager Jamie offers him in favour of the protein bar and bottle of water from his kit bag.

Manu takes the time to chatter away to him while he runs through his post match routine, strips off his boots and socks and chews his way through the less than pleasant bar. It only lasts so long, though, only a few moments worth of quiet serenity before Ben is bounding over again, now nursing a small buzz from the beer in his hand. George rolls his eyes -this is going to be insufferable.

"Photo," he demands, launching himself onto the precarious wooden bench in between George and Manu. Jonny is trailing along behind him looking a little disgruntled. George wonders if this overexcited lapdog version of Ben had dragged him away from his own conversation.

"And who exactly did you bring to take that?" Manu laughs, looking around exaggeratedly to make his point, laughs along with George and Jonny at their club mate's playfully deflated sigh.

"Jinksy!" Ben suddenly calls over to the hooker where a group of Saracens players are gathered near his booth, mucking about with the trophy. "Bring that over here and take a photo, will ya?"

"Fat chance, mate," Jamie snorts earning a few supporting jeers from the group. George could almost roll his eyes -that's the last clique you should approach, a more subdued Ben would remember that.

Amongst the pack, George spots Owen. He seems to be refraining from the beer as well, his own water bottle clutched in hand. Instead of joining in, he’s simply laughing along lightly, smiling with his eyes fixed on George.

“Come on, mate, don’t be a prick,” Ben tries again, clearly not having learnt how to address them, or more simply to just move on and ask someone else. They’re like pack animals, the Sarries, they don’t like intruders and they certainly don’t like being insulted by outsiders. George really does roll his eyes this time, Ben’s excitedly induced ignorance getting them nowhere. 

“Fuck off,” Maro inserts in Jamie’s place, a couple of others hissing their own light-hearted comebacks. George shifts -Owen is still looking right at him, still barely joining in. 

George cocks his head, tunes out Manu and Jonny as they start hollering back, silently asking. Owen is unchanged, though, his expression remaining fixed. George sighs, gives in.

“Faz?” He asks, whines, leadingly. Still Owen doesn’t respond, not immediately. At least it succeeds in shutting everyone else up. George slumps a little as he’s ignored, everyone turning to look at a blinking Owen expectantly, he pouts slightly, pleads silently. 

“Fine,” Owen finally concedes, rolling his eyes. Ben cheers less than quietly in unmediated triumph whilst the group of Saracens turn their mocking onto Owen, cooing teasingly as he ditches his water in favour of picking up the Quilter Cup.

“Oh piss off,” Owen shrugs away the patronising slaps as he breaks through the group and heads over. He loses the responding look of stern discontent as he reaches them, however, regains the preceding soft smile as he gentle settles the trophy into George's lap.

"Thank you," George praises genuinely, returning the fondness, settling both hands around the cup to keep it in place.

"Yeah cheers, mate," Ben thanks, coming down from his high long enough to hand Owen his phone, to tuck himself closer to George as they pose for their small, club photo.

"Thanks!" Ben cheers again once Owen signals that he's done, extends the phone back in Ben's direction. He pings up from the bench, grabs the lager can he had settled on the floor next to his leg. George is surprised he'd managed not to kick it over.

"Oi, where are you going?" Owen demands as Ben begins to make off after a quick check over the photo he'd taken. George tilts his head again, questions. "Return the favour," Owen demands, pulls his own phone out of his pocket and waves it towards the scrumhalf.

He trots back towards George, Manu and Jonny making way as he slots himself down beside him. They share a brief smile, deep in each other's space. Owen slings his arm around George's shoulder, pulls him in close to his side, shifts the trophy resting in George's lap until a little more than half of it rests on his own thigh, bears the brunt of the weight. George can't even seem to form his usual toothy grin for the camera, can't seem to force his expression beyond a soft, fond bashfulness, blushing lightly. If he ever sees the photo, he knows he'll be embarrassed, but he doesn't care, not with Owen's hand resting so firmly on his waist, holding him so tightly.

Ben hands the phone back to Owen afterwards, takes the opportunity to scamper away before he's asked to perform any more arduous duties and joins in with the now blaringly loud full swing of tipsy celebration. Owen takes the phone, places it simply onto the bench next to himself before adjusting the trophy carefully onto the floor in front of them.

"Uh," he starts tentatively, still not quite looking back towards George. It's almost as if he's shy, coy even. George shakes the thought. "You don't have to be back in Leicester tomorrow, do you? For the game or anything?"

"No I don't think so," George tells him, smiles as Owen meets his eye. "Matty said something about maybe going to watch, but the coaches haven't said they need me or anything -just for training on Monday."

"Are you going? With Matt?" Owen asks, their bodies still glued from the hip down where they're sat so close.

"I told him maybe," George replies honestly, unsure of the motive for the line of questioning. "I don't have to, though. Why?"

"I was just wondering," Owen shrugs, nonchalant as he moves as though to stand. George can't help feeling a small, but equally sharp stab of disappointment -although he's not entirely sure exactly what it was he was hoping for. Owen pauses, though, turns back to him, goes on. "Actually, I was kind of wondering -I sort of hoped maybe... Do you maybe want to come and watch it at mine?"

"Do I want to watch Leicester - Sarries with a bunch of Sarries?" George checks, his nose screwing up a bit at the thought of what's being offered.

Owen looks confused for a moment, his eyebrows furrowing. He looks -George isn't quite sure -maybe worried?

"No, I kind of meant -well," Owen sighs, brings a hand round to scrub at the back of his neck. "I thought maybe just you and me."

"Oh," George squeaks, unable to bypass the initial shock. A warmth spreads through him at the idea and he hates that he loves it, hates that he's letting himself read so much into something that definitely doesn't need reading into, that will only get him hurt in the long run. But he's given up caring, he doesn't care, the idea makes him feel happy and if he's honest that's all he gives a toss about at the moment, after such an up and down start to his international season, as thing are so on the verge of turning sour at Leicester. He wants this, wants to let himself relish, or perhaps he should say wallow, in something that isn't even real beyond his fancy. "I'd love to."

"Yeah?" Owen checks, a small smile flickering back onto his own face. "I wasn't sure if I should ask, I know it might be a little bit weird."

"It's not weird," George huffs a small laugh, drops his hand onto Owen's knee -just to test, just to let himself imagine. "I mean, how many times did we watch Wigan - Saint Helens as kids?"

"Oh God don't bring that up, I don't want another argument on my hands here," Owen jokes, the awkward air beginning to alleviate slightly. "We didn't play for them, though," he points out somewhat sensibly.

"Neither of us are playing tomorrow," George points out in response. "So it's kind of like watching two clubs we support."

"Where the outcome effects our careers," Owen laughs, brushes a finger lightly over the back of George's hand. "Only if you're sure, though," he checks again. "You don't have to if you don't want to, I just thought-"

"I'd love to," George tells him again, interrupts before Owen can carry on his tirade of trying to talk them both out of it. George wants to and now the suggestion is out there he doesn't want anything to get in the way.

"Okay," Owen beams just a touch, his cheeks reddening with the effort. Someone is calling his name from nearby, but he seems happy enough to ignore them for a second longer, to hold George's gaze. "That's -that's great."

He really does get up to leave then, George's hand falling away from his knee as he stands so abruptly, picks up the trophy to take with him as he saunters a few feet across the room to where more pictures are being taken. George knows what it must look like as he stares after him, but it doesn't stop him. There's no Ashton around to get in the way, but even if there was George isn't sure it would be enough.

"It's nice to see you to getting along," it still takes George a second to turn his head round, even when the statement, blatantly addressing him, comes from his other side.

"Hmm?" George hums, still taking his time in looking away from where Owen is now busy smiling for the cameras.

"You and Faz," it's Wigglesworth speaking, settled happily into his own booth just beside George's. George hadn't even noticed him before, far too wrapped up; hadn't even noticed that he wasn't part of the bigger Sarries collective that Ben had been managing to piss off. "It's nice seeing you getting along."

"Do we not normally get on?" George asks, confused. He's pretty certain his and Owen's must be one of the closest inter-club relationships in camp -maybe rivalled only by Jamie and Elliot.

"No you do, just after everything last week it's nice to see that it's not coming between you," Richard shrugs.

"What happened last week to come between us?" The explanations are doing nothing to aid in George's understanding. If anything they're worrying to hear, a panic slowly beginning to swirl in his stomach that he's missed something, that Owen hasn't been as happy with him as usual.

"Well nothing really," Richard looks almost as confused as George is feeling, clearly slightly dumbstruck that George doesn't know what he's getting at. "Just with the Japan game and all."

"What about it?" George can feel himself getting defensive now, doesn't like that he's feeling in the dark, that he may have been left in the dark.

"Just -you know how he gets about being on the bench and stuff, he wasn't very pleased," Richard explains. "I just figured that maybe he'd have taken it out on you a bit, since you were the one taking his place. He didn't get moody or anything?"

"No," George responds, heaving in relief that it's nothing more than an assumption he'd had himself at the time. "No, actually he was really nice, he hardly said a word about it. I was kind of surprised myself to be honest."

"Really?" Richard asks, a small smirk spreading across his features, but it's warm -happy rather than derogatory. "You know, it's just a joke at Sarries," he makes some vague gesturing with his arms. "We tease him for it, but I didn't think -I guess he really does have a soft spot for you."

It makes a couple of things make sense; the way Saracens players on the squad always seem so contented with him hanging around, encourage it even, the cooing earlier when Owen had agreed to take the photo for Ben. George isn't sure how it makes him feel that it's so obvious, that Owen's reciprocation to his projecting is so perceivable, that it's discussed and known about in another club's environment. Perhaps Owen talks about him more than George would have expected, maybe he's right in thinking that some of their interactions cross the border beyond just friendly. He doesn't want to pine, though, doesn't want to allow himself to think that way.

He laughs nervously, drops his gaze away. "I guess," he offers, unsure of what else he could say and is just thankful when the call comes for them to assemble for a larger, whole team photo.

There's a space on the floor in front of Owen, one that his friend gestures for him to fill. George is happy to oblige, is happy to tuck himself back against Owen's shin, to smile as the flashes start to go off, as the team begins to cheer.

He feels as a hand brushes over the back of his head and he tips it back in response, just misses so that he ends up bumping Owen's kneecap. He doesn't move, though, leaves it there, rests.         

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What a drama filled week! Hopefully bloody Folau gets everything that's coming to him now. And oh Billy *face-plam*. Why is it that some of these amazing players insist on having such inexcusable views?  
> Been a shit day for me with rugby, too -bloody Bath being useless yet again. And who else was literally on the edge of their seat for the whole Leicester game last night?
> 
> Anyway, on an (I guess?) happier note, I'm going to Japan this week! I can't afford World Cup tickets but I still decided I wanted to go lol. Unfortunately this means I probably won't be updating for a couple of weeks, but I should be back with you by May 4th! (I may also post a little ficlet or two while I'm away if I get the chance, no promises)


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Leicester 22 - 27 Saracens

The whole journey to Owen's from Twickenham is one big, unending stress. George didn't think it would be possible for him to actually miss the dull chug up the M1 that would usually take him home, but compared to the London carnage he's so nervously unused to that now feels like a distant dream. Owen had set the sat-navigation system on his Range Rover for him, had programmed his preferred, and apparently the easiest route, but George had stuck mostly to blindly following the trajectory of Owen's number plate just a few spaces up ahead. It feels eerily similar to a chase he's so familiar with.

They make what George assumes is good time, the Sunday traffic somewhat forgiving even in the capital. As much of a relief as it feels to get off those roads, George feels a whole different bout of nerves encapsulate him as he pulls to a secure holt in front of Owen's driveway. This whole scenario feels endlessly surreal and George can't help but imagine that he's still sat in the changing rooms yesterday watching Ben try to persuade a group of Saracens to do a favour for members of a team they were intending to beat the very next day. Everything since has hazed by in such a blur that George still isn't sure any of it has actually happened, isn't sure that he's actually here, or if he is that he actually should be.

He raps almost timidly against Owen's front door once he's finally managed to force himself out of the car and make his way there. They'd seen each other barely even an hour ago and the butterflies suddenly swarming in George's gut are so out of place for it, so unnecessary and yet to try and fight them would be an unwinnable cause.

"Alright?" Owen greets him with a small smile upon opening the door and allowing it to swing wide and freely on its hinges, revealing the slightly unruly home behind. He steps out of the way to invite George inside. "Drive okay?"

"Yeah, not too bad," George deflects while wiping his feet with neat politeness. He toes off his shoes and tucks them tidily to one side. It's an unneeded commodity, he can tell from the way several pairs of Owen's own footwear are strewn haphazardly down a patchily stained, carpeted hallway, but he does it anyway. The time it takes kills less seconds than he would have liked before he's left facing an unknown awkwardness, unable to follow up on his vague and overly short answer from before the way Owen's expression tells him is expected. This feels strange.

"Okay," there's too long of a pause after Owen draws the word out, pliable on his tongue. "Can I get you anything, then? A drink or something? Or are you hungry? I don't think I've got a lot in, but I can have a look."

"I'm alright," George shrugs, regrettable to the way Owen nods his head curtly in response. He's all too aware that he's the one causing this rigidity, that Owen has offered more than enough outs into small talk to have alleviated it by now had George followed up on them.

"Right," Owen coughs, brings a hand to scrub roughly at the back of his neck. George sinks his molars hard into the fleshy skin on the inside of his cheek. They'd been bantering together freely and easily just before they'd left, they'd spent the morning pairing up to pick on members of their teams for their grumpy, hung-over states. A minimal change of setting and George can scarcely form words in his own mouth.

"Is there anything else on telly?" George rasps around the sudden clog in his throat, finally managing to spit out just a few more than three words. "I know we've got a little while until the game, didn't know if there was some footy on or something."

"Yeah, we can have a look," Owen brightens visibly at the suggestion. George seriously doubts he could be particularly excited over a sport that isn't rugby and takes a second to internally scold himself at just how badly he's allowing this to go, at how awkward he's making things. God, he hasn't been this bad since he was trying and failing to flirt with Ben a decade ago and flirting is something he and Owen are supposed to find easy -they've been mindlessly doing it with each other for long enough by now.

They make their way through into the living room. There are less things messily scattered around than there were in the hallway, it's even what might be considered as tidy if a little shabby. George fights the urge to plump the pillows on the sofa before he sinks down into it, allows himself to embrace Owen's mildly unkempt interior as best he can. He bites his lip. If the thin layer of dust he can see lining the tops of the coffee table and entertainment centre isn't piling onto the nervous anxiety already making him itch then nothing is.

"You sure you're alright?" Owen is looking straight at him, George realises, paused over the remote in his hand, poised over the power button. He looks concerned, although confused more than anything else and George supposes he really ought to explain just what is making him act like a terrified kid on his first day of school so suddenly. If he had an actual explanation beyond 'you make me feel like a fourteen year old with a crush on their older, cooler best friend and now we're properly alone for the first time in months it's so much worse' then he would be more than willing to open up.

"Yeah, I'm good," George is almost impressed at how convincing he manages to make himself sound. He plasters a broad smile on his face, lets it widen naturally at Owen's immediate reciprocation. "A bit tired," he qualifies truthfully knowing that Owen will understand. It may not be total explanation, but it's enough.

Owen nods knowingly, turns his attention back to the TV. They end up finding some World Rally racing highlights that are being aired before the game. George doesn't really get the entertainment value in watching cars driving too fast down dirt tracks and dangerous roads, but the background noise is a small relief, the focus of attention distracted from the prickling air between them.

The Doppler-effected noise from the cars is a welcome break to what would otherwise be silence, but it is steadily becoming agitating and George is beginning to question beyond the sport's entertainment value as to just how anyone can watch it at all. Cheers from the crowd aren't the same as the ones he's used to, as the supportive chorus you would get at a match. Instead it's a row of loud jeering entirely dependent on the size of the cloud of dirt spraying behind the car. More and more the hums of the engines are becoming an irritating screech like that of a vuvuzela. The volume isn't even turned up that loud; all he needs to do is talk.

"I should put the kettle on," Owen remarks and George could almost groan in relief at hearing his voice. "Or I think I have beer if you'd rather?"

"Just water is fine," George smiles as he hones back in on Owen, tunes out the sounds in the background that he had previously been so desperate to hear.

"You sure? I reckon I might have one," Owen says, grunting quietly as he pushes himself up from the sofa. A full eighty minutes of rugby played four weeks in a row is a pretty impressive run, especially coupled with the other responsibilities Owen had taken on this autumn, although George is certain he must be feeling it now. George traces the outline of the muscle in Owen's thigh with his eyes, tries to focus on the attractiveness of the body in front of him rather than the sudden surge of jealousy that he hasn't felt that same fatigue himself in weeks.

"Yeah I'm fine," George shakes his head. "Gotta drive back home later anyway and I have training tomorrow afternoon."

"Just one won't hurt, then," Owen insists, already sauntering from the room to where George presumes the kitchen would be. "You'll be fine by then anyway, we've got hours," his insistence crescendos the further away he gets until George can here the click of the fridge. He sighs to himself; maybe a little Dutch courage would help.

He accepts the can when Owen passes it to him with a tight smile and only slightly disapproving glare. It serves to make Owen laugh, though, still grinning as he launches himself back down onto the sofa next to George. He can't help but allow his own smile to broaden, to twist his positioning inwards a little towards Owen, mirroring as he does the same. They haven't even opened the beers yet, let alone drunk any and already it's working its magic. George sinks back into the cushions, finally comfortable, at ease.

"Are they really making you train tomorrow?" Owen asks coming back round to his usual self, but still sporting the glimmerings of a smile as he cracks open the seal on the lager.

"Only in the afternoon," George shrugs, tucking in to his own drink. "It'll probably only be rehab and maybe a gym session, so it's not so bad. You not going in until Tuesday, or?"

Owen shakes his head frowning slightly. "No I've got the week off, gonna have to sit out on Saturday."

"Well that probably is for the best," George points out, reaching out to poke at Owen's thigh and cement his point with the following wince.

"Nah I'd be alright," Owen smirks lazily as he leans into his side, resting against the cushioned back of the sofa where he's now angling himself fully towards George. "I'd be playing today if I could."

"Please," George snorts, tries his best not to grimace at just how ugly it sounded. "That wouldn't work and you know it."

"Oh?" Owen hums in faux intrigue. "And how's that?"

"Because you'd barrel in there, fifth match in a row, and try to play it at the pace of a test match since you're completely out of club mentality. Not to mention you literally played a full eighty minutes yesterday and you're blatantly exhausted." George ramblingly supplies, stuttering over the tail ends of his words as he notes the loss of Owen's teasing interest. Maybe that answer was just a touch too real, not quite the fun and games Owen was looking for. George bites his lip before taking a slow swig of his beer. He's never been particularly good at this, not like Owen is.

“It was just a joke, Fordy,” Owen explains. George wishes it had been obvious that it wasn’t actually needed, isn’t so sure that his exclamatory response had made it so evident. 

“Really? I couldn’t be sure knowing you,” George resets, tries again with an altered tone -frankly teasing. “Takes a lot to keep you off the pitch.” 

“You’re one to talk!” Owen gives him a gentle shove, tips a chug of his drink back with his other hand. George mirrors. 

“Hey, I’m not the one saying I wish I was playing today,” he defends. “In fact I’m pretty glad I’m not, don’t want to be part of the squad getting beat.” 

“You’ll give us a good game I’m sure; you did last time.” Owen disputes, his modesty pitying if nothing else. “You’ve got the grounds this time -playing away at Welford Road is pretty intimidating, believe me.” 

“You say that like I’ve never done it before. I do know what it’s like,” George laughs. “Anyway, this coming from the guy who’s home ground is Allianz Park, talk about intimidating.”

“Not my fault,” Owen beams right back at him, free hand held up in surrender. "Come on then," he swerves the conversation swiftly onwards, leans forward just a little into George's space, thumb playing on the metal rim of the can held precariously loosely in his hand. "What are your predictions? Where are you putting your money?"

"Oh God, don't ask me that," George tips his head back with a groan, although counters the movement with a miniscule shuffle in Owen's direction, barely more than a shift of his weight. "Let's just say I don't exactly have high hopes."

Without Ben here to tell him off the cynic in George is threatening to run wild. He takes another slow, steady sip in the hopes that the alcohol will help tame the beast before it gets too out of hand. Somehow even his faith in that is wavering.

"It hasn't been your best start to a season," Owen agrees and George wonders just how hard he's trying not to sound smug or whether that's his own imagination running away with him. "But things aren't going that badly for you, no? You're European matches have been going pretty well."

"That's sugar coating it just a touch," George remarks, although there's no real bark behind it, not in the way there probably should be. Instead there's merely the all too familiar deflation this season is really beginning to entail. "We had a good game against Scarlets," he concedes, "but we need to pull ourselves together now, snap out of whatever state we're starting to get into or this season is just going to keep going from bad to worse."

"You think it's psychological?" Owen inquires, head cocking to the side. "Whatever issues it is the team are having?"

"Partly," George is all too aware that he probably shouldn't be having this conversation with a rival club member, oughtn't be discussing his team's psyche with someone who is about to be cheering for their demise. There's so much he wants to get off his chest about it, though, so many fears he's dying to share about the direction in which Leicester seem to be falling that he simply _cannot_ say back at home, views that won't be heard of.

"I'm not going to lie and say I don't think there are deeper rooted problems," George continues. "I mean, anyone can see that the coaching and recruitment system has been royally hashed up over the last year or so, but yeah, I do think some of it comes down to us players and our mindsets."

"Is that not a coaching issue again, though?" Owen debates. "Shouldn't it be up to them to be getting you into the right mindset to go out and win and getting you all the support you need to do it."

"Oh for sure," George nods his agreement vigorously. This is nice, this is easy, they've always been able to do this. Any talk of rugby and all the awkwardness dissipates without a trace. George should have known. "Last season was such an embarrassment finishing fifth. For all the guys who have been there a while that's just unheard of, like, a proper fall from grace, and for us who were playing with England it was doubly bad with the way things went there. It just doesn't get talked about now, though, like, literally not at all and I think we need to address it properly otherwise we're just going to keep putting obstacles in our own way all the time."

"Maybe the coaches just want to keep you from getting caught up in the past," Owen shrugs around the meagre suggestion said with so little conviction that George could almost roll his eyes. "Dwelling on your mistakes from last season isn't going to make you start succeeding this season."

"No, you're right, it wouldn't. But you still need to actually review them, to work on them and learn from them." George goes on. "Like, with England, Eddie and the others makes us go over our downfalls, right? As individuals and as a team -and I'm sure you've done that kind of thing at Sarries too."

"A bit, yeah," Owen mumbles. George pauses to offer him the faintest smile in support. Vocalising detriment towards his team, accepting weaknesses, is not something that comes as easily to him as it does to George.

"Well there's been basically none of that," George explains. "It's almost like we're pretending it didn't happen in the hopes that we can redeem ourselves enough this year that everyone actually forgets that it did."

"So you're just ploughing on through without acknowledging when anything goes wrong?" Owen looks concerned amidst his surprise and George can tell that Saracens must pay more attention to their mistakes than Owen's earlier vague agreement would suggest. Perhaps that's why they're one of the top two teams in the Premiership at the moment and Leicester decidedly are not.

"We look over each match and analyse it just like every team does, I guess," George tells him. "It's just, somehow I don't think the way we're approaching it is that successful. I mean, I know it's not otherwise we would be improving and it's kind of obvious that we're not."

"Have you suggested how you think things could be improved?" Owen asks, voice echoing slightly where he's poised the drinks can at his lip, ready to take a sip. "You're captain when Tom isn't available, right? I'm sure the coaches would listen to you."

"I'm not saying I have any answers or ideas," George backpedals, suddenly aware of just how much he's been insulting a system that he himself would have no hope of improving. "But then I'm not a coach, I'm not the one who's meant to know what to do."

"No, but if you're clued in enough to see what's going wrong then surely you could work something out," Owen suggests absently.

"They're definitely not paying me enough for that," George chuckles to lift things. The last thing he wants is for Owen to get bored, not when things are finally starting to feel natural, when they're finally starting to flow. "Sorry, I've been rambling," he apologises. "Just felt nice to get this sort of shit off my chest."

"I get that, it's cool," Owen lets his arm fall next to him across the back of the sofa, catches George's shoulder with the very tips of his fingers. It's the faintest of touches, but he holds it there nonetheless, just as he would a strong, affirming grip. George tips into it, a noticeable dip in his angle this time, a move he can't help but want noticed. The alcohol is definitely doing the trick.

"What about you, though?" George goes one step further, brings his leg up to rest beneath him, his knee protruding out far enough to prod bluntly against the side of Owen's thigh. The muscle underneath flexes, tenses at the touch before relaxing. "I don't suppose much is really going wrong for Sarries at the moment, no?"

"Wouldn't you like to know," Owen teases gently, although he doesn't open up any further. George tries to ignore the sinking feeling at the reminder; he might have just bared his failing club's soul, but that doesn't mean Owen will. Just because the first stint of internationals are over doesn't mean they're not still rivals.

"I won't tell if you don't," George pushes, shunts himself another notch into Owen's space. The beer is making him feel loose, perhaps a little more confident than he should. Still, if he's committing himself he may as well follow through.

"Have Leicester sent a spy into enemy ranks or something?" Owen laughs, visibly considering George's proximity. The move forward has caused Owen's hand to slip further onto George's shoulder. Steadily he wraps it round even more until it holds a considerable grip around the shoulders. "Is that what your plan is, hmm? Tell me all your worries about Leicester and then seduce the Sarries secrets out of me?"

George's breath hitches at just what Owen means by _that_ word. "Maybe," he hums quietly, not daring to move another inch, leaves the ball entirely in Owen's hands.

In his peripherals, George spots a flash of his club colours on the TV, just about manages to read the familiar 'Tiger Feet' slogan that signals the end of an advert break before a game. Part of him hopes Owen hasn't seen it too, part of him wanting to ignore a game for the first time. Nothing could make him want to burst this bubble.

Of course Owen has seen it, though, and of course he breaks his angle away to turn his attention back to the screen that had been so difficult and then suddenly so easy to ignore. His arm stays hooked firm around George's shoulders, but George misses the shared air as soon as it's gone, misses the attention that had been so solely fixed on him. God, what has he become.

"So, you're predictions are that you're gonna lose?" Owen checks, phone already out as he taps away at a forming message to what George presumes is a team group chat. He looks up momentarily just to throw George an outrageous wink. "You mind if I tell the lads that, or?"

"Yes I do mind!" George scoffs, embarrassingly shrill as he reaches out to bat weakly at the phone held in Owen's hand. The grip around his shoulders keeps him held firmly back, stops him getting anywhere near close and renders his efforts futile. Even that isn't enough to make him wish it gone.

"Not a word of what I've said about Leicester to anyone mind," George warns, as serious as he can muster. "I'm out on a limb trusting you here."

"Not a word," Owen repeats. He's still smirking like a madman, but unwavering in his sincerity.

Even as he retreats his attention fully, as he puts his phone to the side to settle in for the game, Owen's arm remains. His hand holds loosely at George's far shoulder, his thumb twitching now and then, stroking gently at the bone and occasionally digging into taut muscle. George sinks his neck back against it. Vaguely he ponders just how frequently he's been using Owen, in some form or another, as a cushion lately, absently wondering if that amount has grown from its usual figure. He shakes the thought, focuses his attention towards the punditry beginning to prelude the game.

~~~~~

"Yes!" Owen howls in victory as the final whistle is sounded, his hand squeezing George's shoulder as he does so in one last vow of comfort before finally untangling himself and reaching for the phone still led next to him on the arm of the sofa. "Bloody hell, what a game, though."

"Yeah," George grumbles beside him as he watches Owen type furiously onto the screen held in his hands, listens as the device buzzes so intensely and frequently until it sounds as though it's ringing on vibrate. His own is deathly silent and unmoving in his pocket.

"Didn't I say I thought you'd show us a good fight?" He asks, eyes still drawn down to his phone as he speaks, grin growing ever larger.

It's a weird feeling, watching Owen so gratified, feeling so genuinely happy for him despite it coming at Leicester's detriment. George is just as solemn, just as _pissed off_ at the loss as ever he would be, but Owen is right, his teammates really did put up a good fight. Three tries a piece, the difference coming only from one penalty and Joe's only missed conversion -they haven't played quite so well in a good few weeks.

"If only we'd utilised more of your mistakes," George chuckles, only slightly grim in his own self pity. Owen is still smiling so _goddamn_ wide, the crinkles in the corners of his eyes sinking deep into the skin, George can't help feeling warm. "Two yellow cards -ouch."

"Yeah, yeah. Still won, though, didn't we?" Owen bites back good-naturedly, happily teasing the insult with the bare fact.

"This time," George throws back, pouting at Owen's wicked smile as he finally resets his attention, puts the now quiet phone back down in its place on the arm of the sofa.

"Bet you're regretting saying all that shit about mindset now," Owen remarks, referring back to George's previous complaints about his team's failings.

George shrugs. "We still have stuff to work on -a lot of stuff to work on," he assures his point, picking unthinkingly at a loose thread on the hem of his shorts. "But yeah, it was a good game. Might even be a turning point, who knows."

He's probably getting a bit ahead of himself there, he knows, but he can't help feeling it just could be true. They had lost the game, but they'd scored a try in retaliation to every one of Sarries own, they ruled the second half when Saracens had bullied them out of the first. It's a reckless thought, but it does feel like a move in the right direction, a boost in momentum. After being so sure that things were going from bad to worse, it's suddenly not so imposable to believe that they may actually start getting _better._

"Yeah? Reckon you'll be joining us in the final, do you?" Owen pries and George rolls his eyes at the endless exude of confidence.

"I wouldn't go that far," George mutters, leaning forward to flick Owen's bicep in dispute. "It's no given for you either, cocky."

"If you say so," Owen flashes him his teeth, bright white and shark like, proving undoubtedly that he doesn't buy into George's scepticism for a moment. "Anyway, can I get you anything? Another beer?"

"Oh, no it's okay," George deflect. "I should probably be heading home really."

"What, already?" Owen's nose crinkles at the suggestion as he stands, brushes out the wrinkles that have formed in the front of his shorts after so long sat in one position. George instantly misses the warmth next to him, is quick to shove his hands beneath his thighs to stave off the desperation to reach out for its return.

"Got training tomorrow," George reminds him as he wonders away, returns moments later with two more beers in hand.

"Not until the afternoon," Owen argues, holding the can out towards George insistently. George shakes his head.

"I have to drive," he deflects, bringing his arms out in front of him in refusal, but Owen still doesn't relent.

"Just stay here if you're worried about that, I have a spare room -or there's space in mine," Owen winks and drops the cool drink into George's lap making him flinch at the icy condensation encasing the metal. "Let me buy you a takeaway, say sorry for my team pummelling your team today." He grins, still not disheartened by George's meek attempts to argue the point.

"No really, I can't," George doesn't know why he's still arguing, doesn't _want_ to argue or refuse, just wants to snap Owen's offers from right between his fingers.

"Yes you can," Owen is even laughing lightly, clearly not put off at all. George knows he's lost, knows he never wanted to win in the first place. "What do you want? Indian?"

"You sure?" George checks shyly around a sigh of defeat, head ducking as he focuses pointedly on the drinks can still held in his lap.

"Yeah, I'm sure," Owen is still standing above him, but he steps in closer until he's barely a hair's breadth away. His hand falls onto George's shoulder, skims round to the back of his neck. It's all George can do not to shiver as he feels the baby hairs at the nape of his neck being teased and tugged gently. He flicks his eyes up towards Owen, no more than flutters underneath his lashes from Owen's vantage point, he's sure. "I'm really sure."

"Okay," George breathes, finally allows himself to agree, still not sure why he'd tried so hard not to.

"Yeah?" Owen checks, squeezes George's neck lightly around his following nod. "Amazing, I'll go grab my laptop for menus."

The touch disappears as swiftly as Owen does and George feels a dizzying mix of relieved and devastated, his skin scolding from the loss of contact.

Faintly he hears Owen's feet scampering up carpeted stairs, next to him he hears a muted buzz, sees a sudden flicker of light as the phone screen opens to signal the notification from where Owen had left it. George is barely looking, attention drawn only by the sound, only for a second. Something catches his eye, though, gone just as quickly as it could be noticed as the phone screen dies back into blackness before him. He shouldn't pry, he knows, but he can't ignore his intrigue.

Slowly he shuffles towards it, into the divot Owen had left in the corner of the sofa, just beside the arm rest on which the phone is resting. The fabric beneath him is still warm as he invades the space, as he cautiously presses his finger into the home button.

The screen beams back to life once again, bright from where George is watching so closely. The notification that had first drawn his attention is nothing special, just a short congratulatory message from Jinksy to the Saracens WhatsApp group where he's clearly late to the party. It's not that that George is interested in, however, it's what lays behind.

There it is, staring back at him, hidden behind the date and time -his own blushing face. Next to it is Owen's, smiling effortlessly, no need for pose. Between, partially obscured by Jamie's message, is the Quilter Cup trophy, tipping slightly towards Owen where his thigh is bearing the brunt of its weight. Their sides are plastered close together, thighs sticking where they're so close.

George can't help his fluster, desperately fighting off the pink tint threatening to spill onto his cheeks, to mirror the look on his face in that _bloody_ photo.

That photo. On Owen's lock-screen. Owen's phone background. That photo from yesterday, that photo of them together, so happy,  so close, is the background on Owen's phone. _Oh_.       

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What a final! Wow, I can't remember the last time I watched such a tense and exciting European match. So happy for Saracens and all their fans -I say that like I'm not one myself, I'm so bad at having loyalties- that was a win well deserved! (Plus now all the pundits have to stop banging on about how good they think Leinster are, haha) 
> 
> Also, just a quick apology for being so late with this. I had hoped to be back a week ago, but it turns out I massively underestimated how busy I would be upon coming home from my holiday. I hope it was at least slightly worth the wait.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bristol 41 - 10 Leicester  
> Saracens 29 - 6 Wasps

Ben is a no-show at training. George notices his missing car as he parks up, guesses he's likely feigning illness to take an extra day with his family and honestly, he's jealous. It's a true sign of Leicester's struggling season that all the internationals have been called back in so quickly and, even after their promising second half against Saracens yesterday, George has no doubt they'll all be expected to play again by Saturday.

Jonny is still wincing a little as he clambers free of the passenger seat and George bites back the sudden gush of resentment at the fact that even a full eighty minutes at the end of the week should be no meaner feat than usual for himself. The more he's been feeling it, the less irrational it's begun to feel.

"So yesterday," Jonny starts, already hefting their kitbags out of the boot as George makes his own way out of the car. He'd been unusually quiet on the journey over, blatantly tired, he probably shouldn't be here today -none of them should. He hands George his bag. "Where did you get to? You never showed at the game."

"Oh, uh, yeah," George had messaged Ben about it, set up a quick little white lie about taking a rest day. Given his friend's lack of presence today George wonders if he even went himself. "Thought it best to take the day, wasn't feeling so good."

"Seemed alright in the morning," Jonny persists and George gets a sinking feeling of regret at not having pre-prepped for this sort of questioning sooner. It really is to be expected knowing the nosiness of his club mates. "You and Faz were really laughing it up ripping into the rest of us."

George can't help the small smile at the memory, covers his mouth in a forced cough in the only hopes of covering it up. "Yeah, well," he shrugs, battling his threatening fluster determinedly. "Must have been the drive."

He doesn't like the unconvinced eye Jonny is sidling him with, but their schedules take over before he has the chance to push further and for the first time George is actually thankful to be whisked away into a meeting.

As it works out he ends up lumbered in an office for a couple more hours than he would have liked and he barely makes it into the tail-end of a gym session, hip flexors already aching from so much time spent sitting, muscles aching to do something active. Game day captain, that's Geordan's estimation for him for the week with the jury still out on just when Tom will be playing again. It'll give him minutes, give him time, the opportunity he needs to cement proof in his abilities, in his position. This is just what he needs as the autumn starts to wind into winter.

"Hey," George hadn't even paid attention to where he was headed, glad his sense of direction seems to have worked on reflex when Matty's voice snaps him from his daze. Between staying up late chatting down at Owen's and getting up early for the drive back, perhaps he's more exhausted than he'd first thought. "You feeling better?"

For a moment George just stares at him dumbly, uncomprehending to the question. He scrubs a hand slowly down the front of his face, pausing to pinch at the bridge of his nose hoping to ease an ounce of the fatigue.

"Jonny said you weren't feeling too well yesterday," Matt supplies when George can't find an answer. "It's why you didn't make it to the game?"

"Right," George nods, still taking another second to fully catch on. The hesitated confusion clearly doesn't go far in the way of proving his case to Jonny and George can still see the same sceptical look eyeing him from the side. He's not sure exactly what the winger suspects, but he doesn't like it either way. His mates can be like dogs with bones when they get an idea into their heads.

"So you feeling better?" Matt asks again and George realises he didn't exactly answer. This really isn't going well. "Gotta say, you do look a little worse for wear, mate."

"Rude," George replies hinting a return to Matty's teasing smile, although he supposes that, despite his small lie about how he was feeling yesterday, the statement probably isn't too far from the truth. "I'm feeling just fine now, thanks."

"You still watched it, though? The match?" Matt interrogates further and George is just glad that, yes, he and Owen actually had done just that, that it gives him an easy out to the uneasy lie over his whereabouts.

"Yeah," George huffs, long and low. "Was a pretty tough loss, thought we really came through in the second half."

"Not quite far enough," Jonny grumbles.

"We did," Matt just rolls his eyes at Jonny's disgruntlement, nods his head towards George to indicate the aims of his agreement. "Might even have been enough if we hadn't had such a shocker in defence for the first half."

"Pretty solid attack in the second," George counters. "I dunno, feels like things might be boding a bit better for this week if we can build on that."

"You think we can?" Jonny asks, sounding as sceptical as George is accustomed to feeling. Positive thinking, he's decided -it's a new approach he's trying. "Build on it?"

"I don't see why not," George shrugs. "It'll probably be a pretty different team this week with us lot back, but I doubt it'll take too much adjusting. You guys know if you're playing yet, or?"

"On the bench," Matty's smiling even as he says it, only slightly, never daring to let on. They all want minutes, always, they're always itching for the feel of the ball between their fingers. But they're _tired_ , George can see it in the bags underneath Matt's eyes. It's too quick of a turnaround for them to be back, he's sure of that now.

"Lucky you," Jonny laughs, but the usual dripping sarcasm is missing and George can tell that he's barely joking. George knows it's justified, is well aware that his exhausted teammates shouldn't even be here now let alone playing in a match at the weekend, but it takes a strength in him not to bite back at the blasé remark. It's not lucky to be dropped to the bench, not ever.

From the front of his kitbag he hears the ping of his phone, uses the welcome distraction as a means to unclench his teeth, to relax. The text is from Ben, as simple 'I'm coming over', no question, no option, George can't help but laugh. He shows the message to the others when they eye him questioningly.

"Looks like you don't have much of a choice, mate," Matt laughs.

"Fancy bunking off a bit early?" George directs to Jonny. "Don't think I fancy I getting home to Lenny helping himself to whatever's in my fridge."

"You haven't even done anything yet!" Jonny protests weakly, but the hunch in his shoulders is enough to indicate that he won't be putting up much of a fight.

By the time George makes it home, Ben's car is already pulled up outside. _Great._ As much as George is always happy to see him, not that he would _ever_ admit that, he's not sure he's completely up for this. Almost every second George has actually managed to spend out of his driver's seat today has been cooped up in some board room for a meeting and a coiled Ben fresh off the bat from two days off is a whole lot of energy he doesn't want to deal with.

George unplugs his phone from the car charger next to him, can't help the softening in his knackered expression when he sees the snapchat notification. In the picture, Owen is spread leisurely across the length of his sofa, a sofa George is already missing being curled into, a lazy smile spread across his face, bare chest and pink cheeked where his heating is clearly cranked up high. 'Starting to appreciate my week off' the caption reads and if George wasn't so distracted by the view he thinks he could even feel envious.

Not exactly trusting the blush on his face not to totally give him away, George turns the camera and snaps a picture of the steering wheel in front of him. 'Quit boasting, menace' George types out, pauses to really consider the last word, the name. It's obviously intentional, overtly teasing, can't be brushed off as a slip of the tongue. God he's really over thinking this, and as if he didn't feel ridiculous enough before. George presses send before he can talk himself out of it.

"You know I gave you that key in case of an emergency," George calls out as he walks in through his own unlocked front door, chucking his kitbag down beside the stairs as he makes his way in. He's even too tired to bother with his normal stick for organisation.

"It's cold and you weren't here yet," Ben shouts from the living room as George flicks the kettle on in the kitchen and makes quick work of pouring out a couple of teas.

"You skiving off today?" George asks, handing Ben a mug and graciously staving off a scowl at Ben's, most likely intentional, positioning in George's own preferred spot.

"Nah, I'm laid up off my feet with a terrible cold as you can see," Ben jokes lightly. "Anyway, you're one to talk. Care to explain exactly where you got to yesterday? Thought you were coming to the match with us."

"Wasn't feeling great, took a rest day. I already told you this," George thinks he might be becoming an expert at this, the words ingraining into a short and simple fib he can spew on command. "Just stayed in and watched the match at home."

"Huh," Ben smirks and there is that look that George never wants to see. _Oh dear._ "Funny you should say that because when I swung by on my way over there your car was nowhere to be seen. Why you lying, mister?"

George groans. It had to break eventually -just when he was starting to become confident in his story. "Fine, so I watched it at a mate's house," he holds up his free hand in surrendering defence. "Sorry for the mix up."

" _Just_ a mate?" Forget the smirk, Ben is positively grinning by now. He hates that Ben knows him too well, that he's probably been picking up on signs for weeks now. George just hopes he can't already tell who it is that's the object of his affections.

"Yes, just a mate," George answers truthfully, although he's starting to doubt even his dubious self. There have been things, moments that have him questioning, wondering. That's all it can ever be, though, a doubtful rethink. He can't open himself up to the hurt this has the potential to cause, can't risk catastrophic damage to a friendship built up so delicately over so many years, but- "I dunno," he shrugs, hangs his head. "I think just a mate, but-"

"You like him," Ben interrupts, sing-songs around the words, still beaming. George flushes, it's out there now, the words have been spoken, no more deny this, brushing it off as some childish crush when it just _isn't._

"Yeah," George admits quietly and Ben actually squeals, leans over to poke into his bicep affectionately. Batting the offending fingers away George sinks his forehead into his own palm, digs his thumb into the socket of one of his eyes which is already beginning to sting from fatigue. There's a reason he avoids having these conversations with Ben, why he'd far prefer to opt for seeking advice from Owen. Although he supposes that isn't exactly an option here.

"Has anything happened, like, are you seeing each other?" Ben interrogates excitedly and if George had been worried that he had been behaving like a teenager, he can rest assured that it will never have anything on his best friend.

"No, it's not like that," George sighs. Is it not like that? "At least I don't think it is. Like, I dunno, he's just a mate and we're close and we flirt and stuff, but I was so sure he didn't think of it, of _me_ in that way and now he keeps doing stuff which is getting my hopes up."

"Stuff like what?" Ben pries further and George really needs to be careful what he says here. If Ben thought he already knew who George was talking about he would undoubtedly have said, but George knows he'll be on high alert for any slither of information that will give him away.

"Just," George really has to pause and consider how to phrase himself, cursing himself for having backed up into a corner that seems almost impossible to talk around. "We've been friends for... a while and he's always been a bit overly tactile and flirty with me, but he's never really suggested that he wants anything more. Like, I really don't think he wants anything more, or didn't think he did, but it feels like we've been getting a bit closer recently and -God, I sound like a fucking child- but he made a picture of the two of us his phone background and I don't know what that _means._ "

"That _means_ he likes you," Ben states as matter-of-fact as he can while still stifling a smile into the rim of his mug. George rolls his eyes.

"I don't know, though, because we're good friends, like, good enough friends to do something like that and it be totally platonic," George moans pitifully, letting his head loll backwards onto the sofa behind him. This really isn't making things any easier and he's so damn tired. "I just don't know."

"Okay, so maybe it doesn't absolutely mean that he likes you, but," Ben hunches his shoulders forward, leans his elbows onto his knees and fixes George with a look, clearly done with that train of thought before he had finished with it. "Why don't you just ask him how he feels? Or tell him how you feel and see how he reacts to it. I mean, if you really can't tell then there's no better way to find out really."

"Neither of us are particularly adept at the whole successful communication thing, to be honest," George admits, although he doesn't know who he's kidding. That's not why he hasn't said anything, and it's not because he thought it was just a crush that would pass either. "I just don't want to mess things up, you know? I don't want to make him feel uncomfortable or like he's been leading me on or anything, because we weren't as close last season and now that we are again I don't want to lose it."

George stumbles over the last few words, bites nervously at his lip over the slight blunder. _Season._ He holds his breath, prays that Ben won't pick up on it, that their conversation will gloss easily over it. Perfectly reasonable for rugby players to think of normal time in terms of seasons, right?

"George this isn't year nine," Ben isn't even looking directly at him, doesn't seem to have been paying close enough attention to the individual words that made up George's ramble. He releases his tightly held breath, relaxes somewhat as Ben goes on. "He's not going to start ignoring you in the hallways or making fun of you with his mates if you tell him that you fancy him."

"I know, I do know that, he's not like that anyway, just-" George has to turn his head, picks out a small speck of black fluff on his otherwise clean cream carpet. He can't look at Ben while he says this, needs something grounding and distracting while he admits this to himself more than anything. Everything really is coming out now, and since it's started George just can't seem to stop it, can't make himself want to stop it. "I think I really like him, mate. I don't think -I've never felt like this about anyone before."

"Aw Fordy," Ben coos around another giddy squeal and once again George is just thankful to know that he isn't the only shameful sap in the room, even if it seems he really is the hopeless romantic he always promised himself he would never be.

"Shut up," George barks, but he's blushing far too hard to look intimidating even in the slightest, the heat pounding under the skin of his cheeks a throbbing reminder of the admission he knows he'll now never be free to shy away from.

Next to him his phone buzzes and George can see the snapchat notification indicating a reply from Owen. His finger twitches where it's gripping the handle of his mug, the little jump in his stomach at the sign of the username enough to make him desperate to see what is hidden inside. Something in him manages to hold off, though, to retune into Ben's voice as he continues.

"Sorry, mate, you just never talk like this," he's saying. "You literally never like anyone, forgive me for getting excited when you've finally found your first love at the ripe old age of twenty-five."

" _You_ were my first love at sixteen, don't act like you need me to remind you of that," George rolls his eyes around a fondly displeased look. As if Ben doesn't bang on about it enough whenever he gets the chance.

"In another life," Ben winks and George flings a leg out to kick him not so gently.

"In your dreams," he reprimands as Ben just about manages to wriggle away in time, cackling heartily and almost spilling what's left of his tea which has George trying to kick him for a whole other reason.

"Anyway, speaking of," Ben settles back in at a safer distance. "You weren't too scared to tell me how you felt back then, surely it's even easier now."

"I told you I was gay, you told me you had a girlfriend -there's a difference," George deadpans, although Ben isn't exactly wrong. He hadn't said the words at the time, but the message had been pretty clear behind his timid admission of his sexuality to Ben all those years ago, he'd _wanted_ it to be clear. Ben's flustered acceptance and quick justification that he was dating a woman had made it pretty obvious it had been understood.

"Is it Zach?" Ben asks suddenly and George finally looks back to face, sees it staring straight to him, expression poised in considered intrigue.

"No!" George practically blanches, makes the full effort of shunting in closer again just so he can angle another kick. This one, more precisely aimed, lands harshly in the meat of Ben's thigh making him wince dramatically. "Have you just been trying to figure out who it is this whole time? Were you ignoring my dilemma all along?"

"I would never!" Ben squawks in defence, neatly dodging another of George's, probably slightly too brutal, attempts to kick. "Just noticed you two were quite friendly this autumn, is all; and you've known him a while."

"He's still practically a child, Ben," George scrunches up his nose in distaste. "I was friendly with loads of the young guys on the squad, that doesn't mean I was trying to jump their bones. It's called being a good mentor, something you wouldn't know anything about."

"Hey!" Ben clasps a hand over his heart in mock offence, that same annoying grin reassembling over the course of his features, before it sinks almost instantly back into one of pondering. George shakes his head, this guy really does have the attention span of a six year old. "Is it someone else from Bath, then? Or is it not someone from rugby?"

Honestly, George thinks his friend must be more than a little dense not to have figured it out by now, not to have figured it out immediately. It can't help but make George question whether things are anywhere near as clear and obvious as he had been beginning to let himself think they were, as to whether they're even there at all. Perhaps he's been reading way too far into things and now he's gone and allowed himself to admit to feelings he'd just about been managing to quash. This conversation needs to end now, he _wants_ it to end.

"No," he sighs dutifully, not bothering to qualify just which question he's answering, happy to let Ben believe the lie that it's both. He lets his eyes fall closed for a second, lets himself feel the full weight of the exhaustion beginning to hinder him heavily. "Anyway," he fixes Ben with a meagre glare when he allows them to open again, stinging and sore. "Some of us have actually done shit today and are shattered, so can you fuck off now, please?"

It's probably a bit too sharp around the edges, scratch that, it's like a razor blade around the edges, none of the sarcasm George thinks he ought to have intended seeping through to soften the blow. He nibbles on the inside of his cheek with the pointed spike of his canine and the cluster of slightly crooked lower teeth, but while Ben does look slightly confused, it would take more than that to put him off.

"But we haven't even talked about the match yet. Why do you think I came round in the first place?" He protests, ignores George's request just as easily as he always does and sits forward onto his haunches as he begins to discuss the previous day's game at length.

George huffs quietly to himself, finding it easy enough to mostly tune out. Grunting along in the right places while Ben rambles on is a skill he's just about mastered by now. His finger twitches again where it's still clutching around his mug, a painful reminder of the message he's ignoring, of the conversation he can't help but far rather be having.

~~~~~

When they lose away to Bristol it stings. It's not just a loss, it's a brutal loss, it's a 41 - 10 loss to a team who have only just been promoted from the championship. It's a loss under George's captaincy, a loss under his leadership. Just when he thought things might have been looking up.

The roughly upholstered headrest of the seat is coarse against the back of George's scalp as he rocks his head back into it, lets it roll to the side onto the smooth, cold glass of the window. Drizzle is pattering dismally onto the pane outside, the pitiful sound almost entirely drowned out by the low, loud rumble of the bus engine, the vibration of the tires atop the motorway tarmac.

Held loosely in his hand, supported only by the structure of his lap, George feels his phone buzz; switched respectfully to silent for those trying to catch a few winks between their moping. Eyes barely open as the bright light of the screen floods into the dimmed darkness of the bus, blinded and bleary, George swipes it open with hardly a glance.

The first thing he becomes aware of is the infantile indication of a six day streak at the top of his snapchat menu, of the yellow heart just beside it that is still enough to make his own heart twist. Beside Owen's name is the blue indication of a message. Without hesitating for so much as a second, he swipes it open.

'I'm sorry x' it reads and if that isn't enough to make George want to cry. Maybe his eyes are just watering from the intrusion of light, maybe turning his brightness down should be enough. It isn't.

'Not your fault x' George replies simply, and it isn't, it's no one's fault but his own. Eddie had been right to doubt him all autumn and George had had the audacity to resent him for it, to be upset over it. He had no right.

'Not yours either x' the answer comes like a read of his mind. George wants to argue it, wants to wallow in his self pity and use Owen as a pillar to do it and somehow he knows the other fly half would let him. He doesn't think he has the energy.

'Congrats on Sarries win x' he settles for instead, does his best to ignore the sting at his own recognition of another team's success, a team that had robbed them of a win less than a week earlier. 'Did you go to the game?'

'Yeah I did. Thanks Georgie x' even reading his typed out words is lulling, soothing. The name is calming, reassuring. George wants to close his eyes and drift off, but he needs this, needs to keep reading, just wishes he could be listening. 'Can't wait to get playing again x'

'I'm sure they're missing you x' George tells him and it's true. Any team in the world would miss Owen and it's a real testament to the confidence Saracens have in their team as a whole that they didn't jump to have him back the very first chance they got.

He looks over at where Matty is sound asleep just a few seats behind himself, head lolling forward, completely unawares in his state of unconsciousness. Next to George Ben and Jonny aren't talking, his old friend staring glumly into the light of his own phone while the latter simply stares out into the darkness of the window showing little more than his own reflection. He wishes his team could have the same faith, wishes they didn't have to exhausted his un-rested teammates for the sake of no more than a brutal loss.

'I bet Leicester were missing you before today x' George has to suppress the rueful laugh that draws into his throat, still blocked by a lump he just can't seem to swallow. Perhaps they thought they were, now he'd wager they're wishing he'd stayed away.

'I don't think so x' George bites his lip bitterly as it wobbles. He doesn't think he's been this disappointed in himself in years. It's stupid of him to think he should bear the full brunt of the loss, the professional in him well aware that everything comes down to the team, but he's not in the mood for realism.

'They were x' Owen repeats and George appreciates the effort, he really does, is almost inclined to believe him. Almost.

'Thanks Owen x' he puts simply. He doesn't have to spirit to fight it, doesn't have the spirit to accept the endorsements.

'I miss you xx' in the middle of an exhale, the air stutters in his throat. Suddenly the ache of loss feels relieved just an inch, it's crippling grip relenting just slightly. There's not enough energy left in him to read into the words, to consider the extra affection tacked on to the end. Even so, he feels his mouth twitching up in the corners just a touch, the downturn of his eyes softening only slightly. The words are what he needs and more.

From beside him, Ben has looked away from his own screen. George can navigate from his peripherals that the direction of his focus is aimed at George, but he doesn't want to give it acknowledgement. He should be there for his teammates, he knows, even the ones he classes as his closest friends, but all he wants is to lose himself in this bubble, in Owen's words.

He spares Ben just a glance, but he recognises the knowing look even as he's quick to divert back to the words in front of him. George can still feel the small smile on his face and realises exactly what it must look like, especially given what Ben now knows. It takes a few solid minutes ignoring him before Ben's attention relents. Part of George want to tell him about the message, to ask him what he thinks. Another part doesn't think he's even capable of forming actual words right now. The biggest part still doesn't want to look away.

Fingers still hovering over the keypad, George takes a moment to pause. He's not sure what those words mean to Owen, but he knows what it is to him. Putting himself out there, a move in an uncertain direction. In his morbid state, he doesn't take a second to hesitate or over-think. Types and sends.

'I miss you too xx'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still annoyed at the fact all the games had to be on at once so I couldn't watch literary my all time favourite fixture of the season because BT didn't air it, but at least it gave me time to tweak the final parts of this chapter. Can’t say I’m annoyed at the last minute result either...
> 
> Hope the rest of you had better luck and got to watch your preferred game today! Now I'm off to enjoy an evening of Eurovision!


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Leicester 11 - 34 Racing 92  
> Cardiff 14 - 26 Saracens  
> ~~~  
> Leicester 35 - 24 Harlequins  
> Exeter 31 - 13 Saracens

Losing in Paris is hard. George hangs his head after the game as he dutifully and bitterly leads the line of handshakes with the Racing players. Losing at home a week later is so much worse. The ache of a redemption that never was is a callous twist of a knife in a wound that's been open and weeping for weeks, one that is now truly starting to bleed.

Champions Cup games were supposed to be their saving grace, their stadium the only thing keeping them afloat as a team even as they sink like lead through a Premiership table that seems so intent on running away from them. Without that final aid of buoyancy, with the blockades of their keep diminished, George can feel the choke hold coming on, can feel the pressure of the water in its determination to drown.

It's already getting very late by the time George gets home, later than is probably acceptable to be awake, definitely later than is acceptable considering his exertion and his body is more than beginning to protest. He barely makes it to his bed, a wobbling stumble of a trip up the stairs, before collapsing in a heap atop the covers. Face squished against the pillows, things finally begin to sink in.

The game had been beyond disastrous, a train wreck of a second half having left them hanging on to their once mighty team's dignity by a fraying thread. It was all George could do to keep his composure and feed the ball appropriately through his hands, to land his kicks in just the right way, and even that was hardly enough to stave off the complete embarrassment. He should have done more, should have been a better leader, a better playmaker. For the third week in a row he's failed as a captain and he can be damn certain that every second of it has been under the lens of Eddie Jones in calculated scrutiny.

Any hopes he had for the rest of his club season, his _international_ season are all but obliterated.     

The buzzing is a low and agitating hum, muted by the mattress, vibrations carried through the sheets. George wants to reach out, wants to fling an arm loose in aggravated protest and send the source of his disturbance shattering against floor or wall alike. In a twist of foully felt obsolescence, his lethargic body can't muster the energy, retired to its state of stillness.

The oscillations cease and George lets his eyes fall closed in the remaining silence. Stale in his game day tracksuit, cold above the crisp duvet unmoved from beneath him, he's found his place for the night.

Next to him, the buzzing begins again. George doesn't open his eyes, allows the incoming call to run its course once more without so much as a shift. There's something in him begging just to check, just to see who it is that's causing the interruption to his turbulent solitude. Something else thinks it knows exactly what it would see, exactly who it would be, exactly what solace is on offer. There's a deep aching somewhere in his heart to steal it, to absorb the comfort lying on the other end of the buzzing phone merely a half a foot away from him.

Exhausted and emotionally depleted, George's hand twitches just as the vibrations die away.

Minutes pass and whoever had been on the other end of the call seems to have given up, the room remaining totally silent bar the low, quiet hum of the radiator a short ways away. Fatigue outweighing curiosity, George decides against checking the screen, leaves his eyes screwed shut, phone still face down next to him -that is until the buzz sounds again.

It's short and sharp this time, one momentarily prolonged vibration in the place of the repeated alert. A message, then. George's hand twitches again, this time inching closer to the device. When the indication of another chimes George loses it, the carefully calculated control unwinding in a second as his hand shoots out to grab the phone, as his eyes fly open and he draws it towards himself.

'Call me x' the first text message reads. Beneath it, the polite and unnecessary qualification, 'Please xx'. The notification from the two missed calls confirms his previous assumption, his yearning, and now that the device is in his hands it only takes him seconds to submit to the request.

"Hi Georgie," the first thing George notes is the unadulterated _pity_ in Owen's voice. He feels a dramatic surge of distaste flood into the pit of his stomach at the sound of it, suddenly nauseated on irrational anger fuelled entirely by his own disappointment in himself. It takes him half a moment to come back down, to consider the gentle sincerity with which the short greeting had been said. Owen does feel sorry for him, but it's because Owen _cares._

"Hi," George winces at just how wrecked his voice makes him sound, at just how accurate a depiction it is of his current state. He feels utterly ruined.

"That was..." Owen huffs out a long, low puff of air. And, yeah, George doesn't think he'd exactly know how to put it either, not in a way that isn't the blunt brutality of its actuality.

"Shit," George supplies for him. He's not afraid to be ruthless in his evaluation, doesn't plan on being any less so in analysis with the team tomorrow. He'd done enough of the cushy marshmallow act today, right now he needs to vent. "It was fucking appalling, _we_ were appalling, every single one of us. I don't even know -I can't - ugh!"

George's voice cracks around the exasperation and God does he wish it was just from the exertion his voice had faced today. Bringing a hand up, he scrubs over his face furiously, digs the blunt of his nails agonisingly into the thin skin of his eyelids, relishing in the protest from the nerves deep within the sockets. The pain is a momentary grounding, something to hold onto even if scarcely worthy as a punishment, until Owen's voice takes over.

"I know, I know," George suppresses the spiteful lashing within him that tells him that no, Owen doesn't know, that this is something no current Saracen has ever known, because they have, _Owen_ has. If nothing, England's previous season had taught every single one of them damn well enough.

"It's been weeks, Owen -three fucking weeks in a row. Four if you count losing to your lot, but we were better then," George has relented his assault on his eyes, but he scrambles his hand to take a hold of the meat of his thigh, to sink his nails in as deep as he can through the fabric of his trackies. "Why does it feel like I'm the difference? Like they've brought me back in, shoved me in as captain and I keep on failing?"

"From what I watched today, Georgie, you are far from the problem," Owen tells him firmly. Even through the crackle of the phone line, George can hear his insistence.

"Yeah, sure," George laughs sourly around the words. "Because we had a pretty damn good second half against you guys, don't forget. A week later, I'm back trying to play at being captain and suddenly we're losing to fucking _Bristol_ of all clubs."

"Bristol may just be out of the Championship, but they have spent a fuck lot of money building their team this season," Owen tries to reason. "It's not the embarrassment you think it is." But George is too far gone, is too set on the course of his rant.

"Now this! I know Racing are pretty damn decent and I was kind of expecting what happened in Paris last week, but _this,_ " George takes a moments breath, doesn't like to think what would happen if he doesn't. His cheeks are red hot from the endless spewing of emotion, his voice thick and tightening. "Our three worst losses this season have been... it has to be me, Owen, I'm the only common denominator here."

"It's not you," Owen's tone is firm and tight as though he's trying to prevent his agitation and  George knows that the brutality should be an expected consequence of what must sound like little more than whiny pleas for attention. Maybe that is all it is. He's exhausted and demoralised and it's beyond apparent that all he needs is sleep, but that's not what he wants - _this_ is what he wants. "George it doesn't even take a novice to look at the way you've played in these last three games and know that you are _not_ the problem. If anything you're the only bloody saving grace Leicester have right now."

"But it's not just about the way I play, is it?" George twists his fingernails deeper into his quad, his nerve endings spitting fire in protest of the increasingly sharpened assault, the fabric of his trousers complaining to a point of damage. "It's about the way I'm supposed to captain, supposed to be the playmaker, and I swear I'm trying, it's just not _working._ "

"That isn't your fault, you can't be expected to form cohesion in a team that clearly hasn't had any all season," Owen pauses, prolonged, and George sinks his teeth into his lower lip in apprehension. It's not that the comment isn't called for, it is, George would be the first to admit, but they both know it borders on stepping over the mark to talk about another team in that way. "Sorry I-"

"No, you're right," George cuts the apology short, doesn't want it hear it when it is so undeserved. "We've been way off base for months, but we've had our moments -we had them while I was away and I expected, have been expected, to come back and be a captain and build on them and make us better and I haven't. Everything I've done just seems to have made us worse."

"No one can expect you to come in and make the whole damn team better," Owen tries. "And you definitely shouldn't expect it of yourself."

"It is expected of me, though," George sighs, flushes manically at the sound of a whimper creeping into his voice. "I know it is, I know that's what the coaches want and I'm trying but I can't."

"I know, I know you are," the harsh, tough-love edge to Owen's tone seems to have all but dissipated. George supposes it was probably what he needed, but the softer comfort that has taken its place has him breathing easier in just a few short words. "You're not club captain and you're not used to this, I can't imagine how much pressure it must be to come back to after internationals."

"It's a lot," George croaks, still unable to take control of the pathetic wavering in his throat. He opens his mouth to speak again, to follow himself up, but the words aren't there, the sound can't form.

"You're honestly doing so well, though, Georgie," Owen sooths in place of George's missing words. "Watching the games I can see how hard you're trying and how fucking _well_ you're playing, but you have to know that it's impossible to lead a winning team when that team aren't capable of or even willing to win."

"We are willing to win," George counters quietly, although his hold on his leg relents just a touch. "I can see it in everyone, in training, after every game. All any of us want is just to _win_."

"Wanting it and being willing to do it are two very different things," Owen tells him gently and -well George hadn't quite thought about it like that before. "You get so pent up wanting it so badly, being so desperate for it that you forget to just relax and let it happen."

"You talk like you know what it's like," George tries to laugh around it, tries to land it lightly as a soft jibe, but he's all too aware that it just comes off as bitter. His hand on his leg tightens once more.

"I do," Owen assures softly, passing easily over George's intent and allowing him to relax that notch once more. This is why George needs him, needs this. They've both so easily forgotten that they should most certainly not be discussing the inner dynamics and psychologies of their clubs, as though the rivalry doesn't matter at all. George guesses that it doesn't really, not in the scheme of things -guesses that rivalries have never mattered to either of them. "Not so much at Sarries, you're right, not for a good few years, but at England definitely."

"You mean last season?" George knows he does, but he makes certain of a tentative approach. It's still sore, is for everyone, but for Owen the recovery is only just starting to begin.

"Yeah," Owen hums and the cheerfulness around it is a mere act of bravery on his part, but George can only give him credit to how convincing he would be to someone who didn't know him any better. "I mean, you remember how bad it was, how obsessed we became about just getting a win with each passing Six Nations game we lost. And then we went into South Africa so desperate to redeem ourselves that for the most part it just went down in flames."

"You managed to sort it out for the last game, though," George doesn't exaggerate the exclusion of himself from the statement, but the stutter of silence from Owen shows it doesn't go unnoticed. It feels natural to leave himself out of mentions of the winning third test team, though, he hadn't been a part of it. Perhaps that's even why they won.

"We did," Owen finally replies and George isn't sure if the inclusive pronoun is simply in reference to the rest of the team or Owen's response to George's own exclusion. "And I think it's because it didn't matter at that point, we'd already lost the series and I think just knowing that actually made us relax, stopped us wanting to win and made us willing to win."

"So profound," George jokes, but it's not without pause for thought. Maybe Owen is right about what happened with England's last season, although he's not quite sure how it correlates with Leicester's plight. "Does that mean we have to get relegated, then? Have to wait until we literally have nothing left to lose before we can start winning again?"

"You're not going to get relegated," but George isn't so sure. It may be a long way off, but it's a genuine fear he is steadfast developing and he knows he's not the only one. The 'go-for-broke' strategies he's seeing from countless teammates, the way they go un-argued by coaches despite the payoffs being a rarity, it's all pointing scarily in a direction that doesn't bare thinking about. "I just meant that you can try and use that same mentality before it actually gets to the point of having nothing left to lose."

"You really think it would work?" George can't help the scepticism, especially now. "Like, we must have changed our mental approach to matches a hundred times already this season."

"Well maybe that's part of the problem," Owen says and, yeah, it definitely is. Amidst a thousand other things. "And honestly, I don't know. There must be other problems like you keep saying, but those problems definitely aren't you and surely this has to be worth a try."

"I guess so," George avails. He hadn't noticed his hold steadily releasing his thigh until his hand is left clenching around air. Letting it fall down beside him, he sinks into the bed beneath him, his eyes fluttering closed "I probably should be taking advice from a Saracen given the current state of the table. I'll ring up Jack next, yeah? Get the Chiefs' spin on things."

"Don't you dare," Owen mutters and George laughs. It's no more than a quite huff of air, but he feels happy with it, feels himself loosen.

"Congrats on the win yesterday, by the way," George rolls over onto his side. For convenience he switches the phone onto loud speaker and places it down on the pillow next to him. "Sorry, done nothing but use you as a sounding board."

"That's what I'm here for," Owen laughs lightly. Like this, the sound is lulling, Owen's voice clear and crisp and perfectly pitched creating the perfect lullaby. George doubts how long he'll be able to stay awake, but God does he want to. "But thanks. It has been a good couple of weeks."

"I'll bet," George mumbles, his voice half muffled from where he's pressed into his pillows. "Did you go out in Cardiff to celebrate?"

"Nah, just came straight home. Gotta start prepping for Exeter," George would roll his eyes if he had the energy to open them. That level of obsession is typical Owen, but then George supposes it's typical him too."Listen, G, I actually..."

It takes George a few long, silent seconds to notice that Owen has trailed off and it's most of the consciousness he can muster just to yawn around a response. "Yeah?"

"There was..." Owen seems to lose the words once more. This time it's more than George can manage to yawn into the gap. "You tired, love?"

Unthinkingly, George answers honestly. "Yeah," he sighs into his pillow, unsure that he's actually conscious enough to dig into his vocabulary for any other words at this stage. He's beyond the point of really registering what Owen is saying, but still he wants to listen, likes the sound of the words -whatever it is they might mean.

"You should sleep," Owen tells him. George thinks he already is.

~~~~~

George smiles down at his phone as he reads over the messages. All ringing in quick succession, the 'good luck x' is standard, the 'you'll smash them' arbitrary, but the 'remember, be willing to win xx' leaves him with just the smallest glimmering of hope and he supposes it isn't completely out of place.

After two weeks of back-to-back European matches, getting back into the scheme of the Premiership is going to be a hard enough task in itself, but George can't help feeling hopeful. It's so different from his usual drained pessimism, but with a struggling Harlequins as their opponents and a packed, pre-Christmas Welford Road, the willingness to win is slowing creeping into his bones.

The knock on the door sounds behind him and George turns readily. Behind him, his team follow, sailors jumping after their captain. This is a wreckage they're going to swim from, this is water that cannot drown them.

And it doesn't.

Within minutes, George has slotted his first penalty goal of the match. The ease of precision washes over him, the sound of the crowd as he assembles his troops for the restart. It's that blind determination that follows through, the ball sliding graciously through his hands and into the secure hold of Holmes who glides over the line for the try. Finally his team seem capable, finally George feels the same.

The assured conversion is required, especially as Quins claw back two penalty goals of their own. George won't have this, he can't have this, they need this. As he lines up his responding shot at the posts, he takes a second to breathe. This is the desperation he needs to stave off, this is the wanton irrationality that will see them plummeting back into old ways. Steadily and without falter, he takes the shot.

The ball from the restart lands straight into the play of their attack and George struggles to watch beyond a pale fascination as his team find another try mere seconds later. He's blind as he bounds in for the celebrations, grabbing unsystematically at whoever is within reach, pulling at shirts, screaming in delight. It's a battle with his nerves to reach the calm, but he manages and his conversion finds its place easily.

It takes one more exchange of penalties between the two sides before they find the solace of halftime, and for the first time in weeks, George doesn't want it. He wants to keep the ball in his hands, on the tips of his toes. He wants to keep finding scores, he wants to keep leading his team and increasing their lead. He's abuzz as he waits on the call back to the field, they all are, but more than that, they're relaxed. They're _winning._

The second half starts with a penalty to Harlequins, the foreign anticipation of victory hanging just an arm's reach from his team causing an unsteady moment of erratic disruption in what has otherwise been seamless play. George takes a moment in their break for water to quell the disorder. We still have this, he tells them. And they do.

Fighting back, Manu bulldozes his way over for the try in retaliation, all but securing his place in the upcoming Six Nations. In the moment, George can't consider it, but the thought is worrisome. It would be selfish of him not to want Manu in the squad with England, someone who is such an asset, someone who is his friend. Yet it's a fear that radiates through him, an opening in the centre field that pushes his own place further to the side. His foot wobbles as he takes the conversion. The ball sails wide.

As a fitting punishment for his failure, Harlequins soon find a try of their own through Murley and cut Tigers' lead down from comfortable to endangered. Just two more points and they could still have felt safe, two extra points that George had squandered.

It's this plague he knows he needs to learn to shake, this self-detriment that riddles him solid even as Jonny darts down his wing to cross for another five, for the bonus point. Even as George finds the two he'd lost in the following. Maybe it's the fear to his England position, or the imposition of the omnipotent coach who will scrutinise every move, every miss to seal his fate. The pressure is unending wherever he turns, unable to stop anything as Quins end the game with a consolation try of their own.

George knows he should be happy as his team scream around him in delight at the sound of the final whistle, as the roar of the crowd reaches ear piercing levels. They've just broken an eight game losing streak, they've just clawed back what little chances they actually had left and yet somehow it still doesn't feel like enough. Something feels wrong and George just can't tell what.

Nevertheless, he joins in the celebrations, goes through his post-match captain's obligations with a smile plastered all over his face even as something sinks deep in his gut. His disappointment in himself can't stretch this far, his worry for a tournament well over a month away is not enough for this.

Ben drags him into the changing rooms for the team to sing his praises, for him to sing them right back. He grins at the rowdy beginnings of a party, slaps backs and squeezes into group hugs. The ache remains deep in his stomach, prevalent but ignored. Just as his phone remains ignored, tucked away into the dark confines of a pocket in his kit bag, stashed far away in his booth as he sits with Jonny at his own and listens to him ramble.

It's late when he gets home. The notification is hours old, hidden between two other results from the day. It's there, staring him in the face. 31 - 13. That's more than just a loss, it's an obliteration.

Without another thought he opens Owen's contact. It rings all the way through before finding the voicemail. George scowls, hangs up, tries again. Still nothing.

On the third attempt, on what must be one of the last rings before the call dies, Owen answers. The line is silent, but it's open.

"You okay?" George winces at his own inadequacy, but there's little more he can say, no more words he can find.

"Not the best," Owen takes his time over it, is gruff with tinted anger around the fringes. George wishes he was better at this. "You did good today, I see-"

"Owen," George tries to interrupt, but it's to no avail.

"You were willing to win. It paid off," Owen continues and George can hear every ounce of discontent dripping from the formulation. "We weren't."

"What happened?" George asks, hopelessly wishing he could have seen, wishing he could be better prepared for this. "I'm sorry, I just got home and I hadn't looked at my phone. I should have been thinking about you, sorry, I'm sorry."

George doesn't know what he's saying, isn't sure he actually cares. He's not adept at this side of the conversation, he's not Owen -someone who claims to be so poor with words and yet seemingly always so all-knowing of what to say. George wishes he was there, wishes he could press his leg against Owen's or place a hand on his knee and squeeze.

"It just," Owen stutters, pauses. "I don't even know, it was just... I don't know, that's just Sandy Park for you, I guess."

"Yeah?" George prompts. There's more to this, can tell there's more that Owen needs to say.

"We just weren't there, we weren't with it defensively at all," Owen sighs, so quiet that George can hear the hum of the bus in the background. Owen isn't even home. "It's all a bit of a blur, really. God, I'd forgotten how fucking awful this feels."

"I know," George grabs the banister beside him, stood, paused halfway up the stairs, unmoving in his effort, his priority to reach Owen. He holds the painted wood in his fist, wraps his fingers tenderly around it, imagines a radiance of warmth beneath his palm, bumps of joints and knuckles in his hold. Uselessly, he squeezes.

"Like, when we lost to New Zealand, we'd been so close, you know?" Owen sounds frustrated, sounds strained from where he's obviously holding back the flood gates. Part of George wonders if he should have just texted, if Owen had ignored his first two calls with intentional reluctance. That thought stings in hypocritical displeasure considering his pious propensity to have done so himself. "But this, I mean we were a million bloody miles off."

It's telling of just how used to winning Owen has becoming and a bitter part of George thinks that maybe this was needed, a necessary reminder of the great heights from which they're all capable of falling. That's not fair, though, it's not fair of him to want Owen to feel this pain, a pain with which he is all too familiar. With which today he feels just slightly relieved.

"It was always going to be hard to beat Exeter away," George tells him. "You guys will work on it, learn from it, you always do."

It's all too easy just to re-label his own team's failings as another's successes, it's all to apt as a statement.

"I know we will," Owen sounds so resigned, sounds too resigned, defeated. George curses his inability to get through, his insufficiency to contest the same kind of reassurance Owen is so easeful at providing. "Still just feels, I dunno, I just want-"

Owen's voice trails away and George racks his head frantically for something to fill the gap. He squeezes the banister pathetically as though the pressure will somehow convey his compassion through the audio-only line. He should be better at this, wishes he could be.

"What are you doing tomorrow?" Owen asks quietly, the silence between them having drawn on for hourly seeming seconds. His voice around it sounds fragile, nervous, and George can tell that the brave facade is crumbling. Around the solid structure of the wood, George's fingers tighten further.

"Nothing," he answers quickly, truthfully.

"I know it's only a couple of days until Christmas," Owen backtracks precariously. "If you've got family stuff-"

"I don't, not tomorrow," George interrupts. Whatever Owen is asking for, he clearly needs it, a lowly pleading amongst the tone of self-pity in his voice. George thinks he might need it too, might always need it.  "Come over?"

"You sure?" Owen asks, still sounding timorous. George coughs, applies an uncertain assertion, unused to the subdued apprehension on the end of the line, but Owen needs him to be sure. He is sure.

"Yeah," he asserts, but it feels foreign and he can't help the following slip into his own grasp for security. "Please?"

"Yeah," Owen breathes. "Yeah, please, I'd love to."       

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thought I'd post this as a little halftime break after sitting and doing nothing but watch the semis for the last however many hours!
> 
> I've been holding off on sharing this news, but um... when I got home from Japan I sort of finally quit the job I despised and now I'm going on a month long holiday to celebrate? That's the reason I was so busy and couldn't post the week after getting home -who knew that resignations could be so time consuming to sort out?  
> I'm still not convinced I haven't totally lost my mind, but it's happening nonetheless!  
> Anyway, I'm going at the end of next week so hope to still write the next chapter in the meantime. I do also hope to still get chapters up while I'm away this time -I missed it too much last time to stay away from writing this for long again, I'm just not sure how much of a schedule I'll be able to stick to. But I'll try my best!


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have only proofread this once (whilst recovering from the intense effects of too much alcohol) so please forgive any mistakes -I will edit it again when I get the chance.

At six forty five George hears the first beep of his alarm, the piano note luring him into a false sense of security before the crescendo of the sound soon has him subject to the fortissimo of the ear shattering intrusions. Eyes blinking blearily, the nerves begin to set deep into the pit of his stomach. He reaches over to snooze the alarm, but the nerves have him alert within seconds, the flutter of the butterflies beating beneath his skin making him itch with anticipation. Lying here any longer will do him no good.

By half past seven he's already vacuum cleaned the living room twice, sofas, skirting boards and ceiling coving included. In a move of precise inspection he runs the pad of his index finger over the top of the thin television screen. It comes away unscathed.

After a quick once over of the hallway, he allows himself to settle in for breakfast. With the low hum of the washing machine steadily churning his tracksuit from the previous day providing an offsetting background, his leg jitters uncontrollably beneath the table. Uncomfortably, he forces his way through the bland breakfast cereal, unwilling to risk the crumbs or spatter of his usual morning indulgence. Looking around the cleanliness of the surrounding kitchen upon finishing, it feels like nothing less than a worthy sacrifice.

Restless still, both bathrooms undergo a thorough bleaching. George is almost done with the second one, rushing so fervently that he ends up stripping a couple of patches worth of colour from his pyjama top from clumsily handled peroxide, when he realises he has no idea what time Owen is actually coming. Something in his internal clock tells him that it can't even have reached half past eight and that he likely has hours worth of time. Still, his intensity refuses to falter.

When he's finally done, the thin cotton of his once pristine t-shirt is all but entirely ruined. Stripping it free and throwing it simply into the bin in his bedroom, George flings the doors of his wardrobe open to stare blankly at the clothes inside. He honestly can't remember the last time he actually worried about what he was wearing, the last time he even cared -there's never been much to consider when he's worn nothing but sports kit for the last fifteen years, excluding the occasional suit. Now, faced with his limited array of bland casual clothes, he has no clue where to start.

It takes him three attempts just to make a decision on jeans -black, not too skinny, but with minimal bagginess. He grimaces at the messy pile, in reality no more than two garments, accumulating on his bed. Taking the time to find the appropriate hangers, to put them back into their allotted slots, for him is a must. He's just finished tidying away the second pair of rejected jeans when the doorbell sounds from downstairs.

A sudden bout of ridiculous bile-like panic rises in his throat at the sound. George glances at the clock on his bedside table. Just a few minutes before nine and Owen's already at the door, at his door, at his house, and George is stood in a half naked panic in his bedroom. Oh God.

The doorbell sounds again and only then does George comprehend the duration of his prolonged hesitation. Gone is the luxury of worrying about what to wear and in a hurry he grabs the first plain t-shirt he sees off its hanger and shoves it over his head. Barrelling down the stairs, he barely has the time to pray that it isn't stained -just his luck that it would be such a crisp white. In his head it seems like such a menial thing to fret over, all of it does. Why the hell is he so nervous?

He doesn't have the time to consider it, though, pushes the flutters pounding in his stomach deep into the bottom of his gut with one quick glance over the state of his hair in the hallway mirror. One last kick in the ribs of anxiety, hand quivering slightly on the handle, and George opens the door.

Owen is staring down at his shoes, crunching playfully at the gravel that's been kicked up from the driveway onto the doorstep. His hands are stuffed in his trouser pockets, ever present kitbag slung over his shoulder. He's dressed almost identically to George, only swamped in a dramatically oversized winter coat as well, hood up despite the absence of rain or snow. The faux-fur trim around the headpiece encapsulates his face angelically, skin pale from the cold, reflecting the dim porch light which is still lit in the progressing mid-winter morning.

"Hi," George stutters eventually, words lost to him for exaggerated moments. He steps to the side to invite Owen in, closing out the cold following his timid step forward. "Sorry, I um- I was just getting dressed."

"No it's-" Owen pulls his hands out of his pockets, diverts his eyes to the fiddling of his fingers down by his abdomen. "I know it's early, I just- I couldn't really sleep last night after... I did text, but- sorry."

George wants to face-palm. Since first turning off his alarm this morning, he doesn't think he's checked his phone once, too caught up in the finer details to even remember the basic tasks.

"It's okay," George reassures, all too aware of the unnecessary apology hanging in the air between them. Owen finally looks up at him at the cheerful forgiveness, looks him fully in the eye. The intensity would be enough to make George flush like mad, but it's gone instantaneously, replaced by the sudden weight of Owen's presence, arms wrapping around his middle in a tight, trembling hold.

Without pause in his response, George reciprocates the embrace with wholehearted affection, hands scoping the breadth of Owen's upper back, the muscles taut and tense enough to be felt even through the thickness of his coat. Owen's frost-tipped nose probes at the juncture between George's jaw and neck, head ducked and face hidden as his ragged breath suggests a worrying affliction.

"You okay?" George asks cautiously, softly, his own chin resting where it's hooked heavily over Owen's shoulder.

"Yeah," Owen mumbles, pulling away and shrugging slightly. George can't remember the last time he saw him so depleted, a displayed disappointment guarding the poorly hidden sadness beneath. He wants to reach out to him, to tug Owen's body back against his own and hold firm as a pillar of support. A twinge of anxiety holds him back, keeps him still. "I just forgot how shit this feels, you know? God, I don't even know what's wrong with me -I couldn't even keep my eyes closed last night."

"It must've been a really tough loss," George sympathises, not needing to search far for regurgitated pain of his own. Seeing Owen like this makes his own win feel insubstantial; no matter its significance, no matter it's break to an agonising streak of defeats -it's not important, not now.

"I don't know why-" Owen huffs, stutters. Inside his coat, his face is beginning to flush in the warmth of George's heated house, although there's more to it than that. Beneath the mask George can see the embarrassment. "Maybe because it was away at Exeter, or because we really just didn't play well at all, I just-"

A frown delineates the pause, but Owen contradicts his own motion, reaches a hand back out until the tips of his fingers are brushing at the protrude of George's hip. "You haven't watched it have you? The match?" He asks timidly, wrist never ceasing in its movement where it drags the faintest of touches over the imposition of clothed flesh.

Silently, George shakes his head.

"Don't," Owen requests, pleads. The motion stops in proceed of a light hold, fingers wrapping barely around the bone of George's hip, the sensation hardly there and yet burning electrically all the same. "Don't watch it, I don't want you to see-"

"I won't," George promises, setting as assured of a smile as he can onto his face. This self-doubt is concerning, is a process he's so unused to witnessing in Owen's usual exude of arrogant security. George is so familiar with the feeling and yet hopelessly inept in the face of someone else's despair, of Owen's despair. This is all he can offer.

Wordlessly, George slips his hand to the hold on his hip, tugs implicatively at the hemmed wrists of Owen's coat. The compliance is immediate, jacket shrugged free into George's waiting grasp, shoes kicked away, bag dropped.

"Coffee?" George asks as he hangs Owen's coat up on the rack with his own. It looks nice alongside them, looks like it belongs. Turning back, he can't help but notice the rawness edging the rims of Owen's tired eyes. His heart aches for him. "You look exhausted."

It's probably a slightly, albeit accurate way of phrasing the observation, but Owen merely nods and follows George through to the kitchen. He perks up a little at the prospect of his favoured beverage, balks mockingly at the sight of George's Christmas gingerbread instant coffee sachets, although drinks it up happily enough while ambling easily about his drive up. George detects the faintest hints of a smile around one mouthful, knows it's from the overwhelming sweetness. It transports him back to a time when they were freer to eat as they willed, a time when Owen would show up on his doorstep every morning with a new bag of sweets to supply them both with at least a quarter of their day's calorie allowance before they'd even reach the school gates. If only things could still be so simple.

"Wait," Owen pauses as they make their way through to George's living room, plied with the promise of comfier seating and whatever is on the sports channels before whichever Premiership match is on later in the day. George turns to face him, has to stifle a laugh at the indignation plastered all over Owen's face.

"What?" He asks around a short chuckle when a follow up is not immediately given.

"You don't have a Christmas tree," Owen's mouth falls a gape around the apparently incomprehensible fact. The caffeine must be working its magic on his already. "Don't tell me you don't have a Christmas tree anywhere in your house."

"Well, no," George shrugs around his amusement. He hadn't even thought about getting one, subconsciously not realising the need. "Guess I didn't really see the point -the whole family is going to Joe's to make it easier with the baby and all. Anyway, don't you think it's a bit sad to do all that when you live on your own?"

"I live on my own and my house looks like a Christmas bomb went off inside it," Owen tells him, still looking completely dismayed as he gazes around George's immaculately bare living room. "You have to have a Christmas tree, Georgie, it's, like, the law."

"But -all the pines, it's so messy," George tries to argue. "When everyone was here for Christmas last year and it was getting knocked all the time I swear I had the hoover out every five minutes!"

"Like you don't have the hoover out every five minutes anyway," Owen points out teasingly and George can't help but blush at the acknowledgement to his notable compulsion. "No, come on -we're going to get you one."

"But-" George tries again weakly.

"No arguments," Owen has clearly made up his mind and George isn't sure that he could actually fight against him even if he really wanted to. "I'll drive. Let's go, mister"

It's how George ends up bundled into Owen's car, how he ends up bumbling through barely remembered directions to a place he hasn't been to in over a year. It's how he ends up with one of only two trees the farm have left just one day before Christmas Eve, massively tall and so bushy that George isn't sure there's a space in his house that's wide enough to accommodate it.

Owen insists, though, insists on pulling his wallet out and buying it himself, insists on buying George a cup of mauled wine and bag of salted caramel hazelnuts to go with it. He has George feed them directly into his mouth as he drives them back to George's home, both of them laughing uncontrollably as he gives a teasing nip to the feeding fingers around every bite. Perhaps it's just the mauled wine, but George doubts the warmth he feels could be anything less than the adoration it is.

They fish the few decorations George has left over from last year out of his loft, Owen biting away an obvious grimace with every step up the ladder, with every lift of a box. George’s own muscles are twinging in protest too, but it a comfortable ache, a satisfying reminder of the previous day’s successes. Owen winces again, just a couple of steps ahead of George as he carries a crate of fairy lights down the stairs. The recovery from a loss is always so much harder.

Despite his obvious discomfort, Owen takes no protests, refusing George’s help bringing the intrusive evergreen in from his car. George tries his best not to visibly flinch at first sight of dropped the pine needles trailing all the way from his front door, sullying his previously pristine carpet; Owen’s smirk tells him his attempt has been less than successful.

Finally in its place, they both take a moment to stand back and stare at the festive addition to the décor. It blocks out almost the entire window, some of the widest branches spanning further than the width of the loveseat directly opposite. The top branch brushes the ceiling, any taller and it would be bending over -George doesn’t bare to think about the potential staining that could leave on the perfectly white paint. Large proportions of it are skewed and bent, an obvious rejection to families looking for the perfect Christmas, left for the chipper with just days to go.

From beside him, Owen lets out a loud, obnoxious snort. “Sorry,” he attempts through red-faced giggles when George turns to him with amused expectation. “It’s just-“ he gestures wildly at the tree before them, unable to force any more words out through his entertained laughter.

“You’re the one who insisted on buying it!” George exclaims, but even he is unable to contain the breakthrough giggles behind his supposed annoyance.

“You’re the one who didn’t have a bloody Christmas tree two days before Christmas,” Owen argues, smirking outrageously as he reaches out to tug George towards him, to press their hips flush in a split second of unambiguously flirtatious mocking. His presence is gone as quickly as it had invaded and George is left blushing uncomprehendingly as Owen moves out of his space and heads straight for the boxes of decorations to root around. How he can be so blasé about such a move, to George, is inexplicable.

“Help me with these?” Owen pulls the tangled mess of wires vaguely resembling a chain of lights out of their box, holds them out to George like an offering to accompany his hopeful, oblivious smile. Shaking himself, trying to will the heat out of his cheeks, George nods, drops himself down to the ground so that between them they can set about a task that suddenly doesn’t seem so arduous.

George daren’t count how long it takes them to detangle the lights to a somewhat manageable degree. It doesn’t help that the both of them are entirely incapable of remaining focused on the task in hand; take rugby out of the equation and it seems they both have the attention span of a small child. It’s hardly conducive, either, that the second the wires have been de-matted Owen pounces to trap George’s legs in a tight noose made up of the colourful bulbs. George squeals, caught in his attempt to stand and almost toppling straight back over. Owen holds him firm. With a hand on his hip, George allows himself to be fully wrapped in the lights, pouts as Owen plugs them in and cackles at the sight of his human Christmas tree while snapping a picture on his phone. Unravelled, the whole process starts again.

With the lights finally finished, they set up a neat little system for the decorations. Normally so pernickety, obsessive even, George goes unfazed at the chaos of Owen’s haphazard approach, baubles strewn in no particular pattern. Perhaps it’s just a comfort in comedic distraction. It must take him a good hour to stop giggling at the multicoloured tinsel that Owen throws around his neck, that he demands George adorn himself. They must look quite the prideful sight, quite the cliché, but it’s a scene for no one but themselves.

Time is a lost concept to them as George finally digs the centre piece out of the depths of its tattered cardboard box. All he can tell is that the sky outside the tree-skewed window is beginning to dim and he can feel the growl in his protesting stomach from his neglect. It has to be passed three, probably later and all he can wonder is where the hell the time has gone, can only wish to extend their day further.

Still, star in hand he soldiers on, reaches out to drag the nearest foot stool closer to him, embarrassingly unsure whether or not it will be enough to boost him to the top of the tree’s excessive heights.

It’s not. He can hear Owen chuckling quietly from behind him as he boost himself further onto his tip-toes determinedly. Precarious in his perch, the squishy material beneath him hardly a stable structure, George feels himself falling forward. Stumbling his feet in increasing panic, an arm makes its way to grab around his waist, to settle and hold over the lower span of his abdomen. Safe, he instantly calms.

“Come here,” Owen mutters, amusement still thick in his tone. The other arm comes around to join the other then, both firm and secure in their strength, muscles flexing as Owen pulls George’s body back against his own and uses his structure to boost George higher. It takes more than in should of George’s will to actually focus enough to fix the ornament in place and not fall into thoughts about the fact that Owen is literally sweeping him off his feet right now.

The glide of Owen’s hips against the back George’s body as he’s lowered back to ground is worse than the hold itself. Fighting off a beating blush, George can only endure as Owen’s crotch runs the full height of his arse, cleft to tailbone. And if that isn’t a thought he’s going to struggle to shake.   
“Perfect,” Owen comments once George is safely to ground. Staring up at the mess that is their tree, he backs half a step away from George although trails one hand around from its hold until it’s resting loosely at the narrowing of his waist. The imposition of his presence is missed instantly.

“That’s one word for it,” George half jokes, but while, no, it’s not the neat and organised perfection he’s used to, it’s theirs and he doesn’t think he could’ve summed it up in any better way.

He turns to face Owen, simply looks up at him for a moment, all warm smiled and pink cheeked, eyes bright with the illuminating reflection of the fairy lights. The image couldn’t be further from what George had greeted early in the morning.

“Thanks for all this, Owen,” George says sincerely, and he means it. The litter of fallen pine leaves may cause him a small cardiac event when he sees them again tomorrow morning, but for now it’s the last thing on his mind. “You really didn’t have to do all this -to buy me all this.”

Owen shrugs, stuffs his hands into the front pockets of his jeans. Something makes him seem suddenly nervous, but he holds their eye contact unwaveringly. “Yeah, well, you really didn’t have to put up with me inviting myself up here and barging in on your Christmas, so… least I could do really.”

“You didn’t-“ George tries to start, would even have continued on through Owen’s fixed look, but the abrupt, intense growl of his stomach between them brings George to a holt.

After a second of surprised silence, he bites his lip over a huff, has to throw the back of his hand against his mouth to stifle against Owen’s growing blush of embarrassment. But then he’s laughing too, soon both of them unable to hold back the full blown gales. It shouldn’t even be funny, but the relaxed hilarity of the day has left them both in fits of uncontrollable giggles at more times than just the present.

“Sorry,” George manages to apologise through barely quelled laughter. The hankering in his own stomach is starting to feel all the more extreme at the thought that he really ought to have fed Owen a lot more than he has. He only has to take one look at Owen’s built frame to realise how much more it must take to fuel him, how much more it takes to fuel himself. “I haven’t been the best host, have I? Fancy a mince pie?”

“Do you even need to ask?” Owen grins, trails closely behind George as they make their way to the kitchen. He doesn’t tell Owen that the mince pies he pulls out the depth of his freezer are over a year old, left over from the stocks his mum had lumbered him when his parents had been staying with him. More than that, he can’t bring himself to stay a word, to break such a comfortable silence as they manoeuvre around each other, as Owen pulls mugs and tea out of George’s cupboards as though this isn’t the very first time he’s set foot in his home.

They stack a plate high, cooking all three of the boxes that George manages to dig out. In reality, despite the festive season, they oughtn’t be deviating so indulgently from the confines of their ridged diet plans, but as Owen keeps sifting them into the oven George is in no mind to protest.

Full mugs in hand and overflowing plate between them, they squeeze tightly into the loveseat to face the resulting masterpiece of their hard-day’s-work. George’s thigh overlaps the top of Owen’s, provides the wobbling basis of their sugar-drenched meal. The ever-presence of his smile is reassuringly infectious, something George can’t help but mirror even as he struggles around a mouthful of his tea.

The quiet between them is drawing on now, but still George is reluctant to test the fragility of the silent comfort; words to him remain intrusive, unreliable. Still, he shapes his mouth around sounds lost to his throat, language unformed in his head. Relinquishing control, he lets Owen take on the judgement, waits for his instigation.

“Uh,” it’s unsteady, unsure, proceeded by a long soundless pause. George waits patiently still, but holds his gaze strong and affirming even as Owen’s eyes wonder and deviate aimlessly. “Seriously, thank you for today. I know I kind of pressured you into it, but, um, I really needed it, I guess. Like, I really wanted to see you after everything with, you know, the game and stuff yesterday. Well, I needed to see you really, you just -I don’t know, I’m not sure what I’m trying to say.”

George isn’t sure either. Desperately he searches for any ability at inference, but he’s bad at this, bad at reading through ambiguity and uncertainty.

“You didn’t pressure me into anything,” he settles for, because it’s true, it’s certain and that’s all he can rely on. But this needs more than that, Owen needs more than that, he can tell. This requires a bravery he’s unused to. Steadily, he swallows around his mouthful. “I wanted you to come, I invited you because I want to see you, always.”

The implication hangs heavily between them, an unmissable admission that knots a dull, aching ball of anxiety tightly into his stomach. George sinks his teeth hard into his lip.

“I missed you,” Owen breathes, although nothing can counter George’s own relieved, weighted exhale.

“Yeah?” He worries his lip where it’s still held in the grip of his front teeth. It’s an interrogation for reassurance, but no response is given, it’s not needed. “Me too -I, uh, I missed you too.”

Owen nods, his fingers wondering aimlessly until they find a part of George to pet, coming to stroke slowly near the top of his thigh. He’s still pointedly looking away, but the touch is enough, grounding.

“There was, um, I needed to tell you, to show you, uh-“ Owen stutters and George almost resents the loss of silence, the loss of laughter. They’re not good at this, useless in the face of sincerity. Awkwardly, Owen wriggles until he can fish his phone out of his back pocket. “I wanted to tell you on the phone last week, but, um,” he pulls up a pictures, hands the device to George. “You know, when I phoned after Racing, but you were tired and stuff. I just -I didn’t really want to text it.”

The photo is a screenshot, the image of a WhatsApp chat. George frowns at the sight of the Sale Sharks group name -this doesn’t bode well. Someone, the name cut off out of sight, has sent a link to an article from Stonewall. George remembers it well, has read its contents of praise for the England rugby support of their campaign more than once. But it’s what’s beneath it that draws his attention, that makes his chest twist in anger.

If Ashton’s name glaring back at him wasn’t enough, the pathetic response of two eye-rolling emojis makes George’s blood start to boil. It’s something so meagre that anyone else might glaze over it, seems to be what the rest of the group have done judging by the messages further down. That’s not something George can do, though, he knows all the well just what he means.

“Elliot sent it to me,” Owen tells him. “I can’t remember what he said -Marland sent it to someone who sent it to someone who sent it to him. Guess everyone else thinks he’s a prick too.”   
“Probably not everyone else,” George mutters, matter-of-fact, bitter at the brutal truth. “I can’t even -please tell me you’re finally going to talk to Eddie now.”

“No, I,” the fingers stroking at George’s pauses. “This means that other people see it, to, right? Like, people like Elliot can have my back if I need. Like, even his own team must think he’s an idiot if they’re taking screenshots of him being even subtly homophobic. I just, I wanted to show that it’s not just between us anymore, and that, like, if you did want to start being more lax with how you talk about your sexuality then more than just me and Ben will be cool about it, you know?”

“That’s not,” George has to cough around his words, almost in disbelief. “That’s not really what I see, Owen. I see someone who we literally have to represent our country with rolling his eyes at our lifestyles, at just who we are.”

“But it goes beyond that,” Owen counters. “There will always be people like him, people at England, people at our clubs, but there are also so many guys like Elliot and Marland who aren’t, people who support us.”

“Yeah but there’s no bigger support than the support of your coach,” George points out. “It is great that there are guys who will back us up, but what can they really do, realistically? Eddie can help, can keep an eye out.”

“I don’t want to tell him, G,” Owen huffs and -oh. “I hate the idea of having to sit down in a meeting and talk about it. It makes it a big deal, makes it a deal at all and that’s not-“ he sighs, “I don’t mind people knowing, but that is the last thing I want. I thought you got that.”

“I do,” George is quick to justify. When Owen puts it that way it couldn’t be clearer, couldn’t be more relatable. “I really do. Sorry, I’ve just been projecting I guess. If it was me I think I would just want the security, but I wouldn’t want a big, serious meeting and the whole coming out thing either.”

“I have the security,” Owen flashes him a quick, small smile. “I’ve had you this whole time and know I know there are others too, more than just Sarries and closer mates.”

“You know I’d always back you up, yeah?” George winds a hand down between them, brushes his fingers ever so gently against Owen’s own on his thigh. “I reckon I could do even scarier than an Eddie glare.”

Owen snorts. “And you’d end up looking like an angry puppy,” Owen turn his hand even as he lands the jovial insult, relents in his petting in order to wind a few fingers through with George’s. “Yeah, I know you would.”

He looks at George fully then, finally meeting his eye with the softest of gazes. In his hand, he squeezes George’s fingers, tightens his general hold -not uncomfortable, but ever present.

“I have something for you,” Owen’s voice is barely above a whisper when he speaks again, his stare suddenly confident in place of his earlier timid meandering. George could happily just look at him, unhindered, but his brow furrows as he considers the words, unsure what he means.

With one last pinch of George’s fingers between his own, Owen stands, walks towards the hallway door. Refusing to relinquish his hold until the stretch between them becomes just that inch too far, George is left with his arm held out after Owen, only drawing it back to himself when he comes to. Mere seconds later Owen is back through the door, kitbag slung over his shoulder.

Graciously as George supposes is possible in the confines of the chair, Owen sinks himself back into their shared space, legs swapping from their previous positioning. From out of the bag he pulls a petite box, somewhat messily wrapped in a shining festive paper. Slowly, he holds it out for George to take.

“Owen,” he wines quietly in reluctance. “I didn’t…”

“I know, don’t be silly -I wouldn’t expect you to,” Owen smiles, shakes the gift insistently until George breaks and takes it from him. “Just open it.”

George can’t help his blush as he starts to peel away the slapdash wrapping, sliding open the cardboard lid of the box beneath. Out of it he pull the heavy glass, turns it over in his hands, struck with agonising awe.

The paperweight is small, but heavy in his hold. The glass is total clear obscured only by the intricate engraving, a pattern that has George swooning with nostalgia. In the middle of the simple shield is the familiar interlocking SH of the Saint Helens crest, a symbol so ubiquitous to George. It’s so wholesome, his heart stutters.

“Owen,” George croaks, worries that the sound of his name may be becoming akin to a mantra, but there’s little more he can think to say. This is so much, too much. “How did you-?”

“You can get anything in London,” he shrug casually, but George swears he can see a faint blush creeping up the side of his neck. This isn’t the sort of thing you can get on the high street, isn’t the sort of thing you see in passing -it must have taken time, effort. “Do you like it?”

“I-“ George stutters. He feels so overwhelmed, his throat tightening around words before he can form them. “I love it,” he manages, still at a loss.

“Yeah?” Owen seems to brighten further. Or maybe it’s just that ambiguous flush finally reaching his face.

“Yeah,” George breathes, still turning the small cuboid of glass over in his hands. Slowly, he runs his thumb over the engraving and feels the tiny bumps of indentation. He looks up to Owen who is still smiling at him, although it’s nothing more than a timid quirk to the lips.

In that moment George wants nothing more than to sway forwards, wants to feel the weight of Owen’s presence ever closer, wants the feel of his breathe so near that it tickles his face, wants those damn lips pressed against his own. He feels himself shift an inch, swears he sees Owen do the same, although George can do little more than stare at the contours of his mouth, the slight chap over the skin there. Frozen in his place, he’s transfixed. A small flirt of his eyes up towards Owen’s own and George could swear that he’s the same. Yet they’re both unmoving, still.

The pause draws on long, too long, and George watches in dismay as Owen deflates slightly, as his attention becomes diverted once again. Something inside him feels like it’s breaking, distraught.

“It killed me a little inside to buy it, though,” Owen breaks the silence around a puff of air as he sinks back fully away from George and into the arm of the seat. Their legs still remain twisted together, but the space in between them is now a breathable distance. George doesn’t think he’s ever resented thin air as much as he does in this moment.

“I bet,” George mutters as he leans back with a heavy ache in his chest. His gaze flitters back to the ornament still held in his hand. It’s enough to have him smiling once again, nowhere near enough to replace what could have been.

The air feels thicker now somehow, as though it’s swarming in in vast swathes to fill some kind of unfulfilled void. George doesn’t know what to say, how to fill it.

“Yeah,” Owen drawls around the word, like he’s filling time while thinking of what else to say. There’s nothing, of course there’s nothing, speaking is not what they should be doing and George pleads with his internal self to combat the anxious demon that’s keeping him from simply surging forwards and kissing Owen anyway. Even without it, the moment is gone. “I guess I should probably be heading off soon.”

As if it was possible, George’s heart drops even deeper into the pit of his stomach. “Let me get you dinner,” he tries, but even in his attempts it sounds weak. There’s nothing he wants more than for Owen to _stay_ ; to stay here with him, have Christmas with him, to _kiss_ him. Somehow, even in his desperation, none of that is he able to convey.

“It’s okay,” Owen shakes his head. “I’ve got a lot of stuff to do tomorrow, lots of prep for the big day and all that.”

“You’ve gotten so much for me today, I feel bad,” George reasons, gestures madly at the tree in front of them, at the precious little gift still clutched in the grip of his fingers. “And I haven’t exactly been the best host -I’ve barely fed you! Please, just, let me make it up to you, pay you back.”

Again, Owen shakes his head and George just wants to grab it in his hands to hold it still, wants to keep it locked neatly in place, a caress to his cheeks as he kisses him. Instead he simply watches as Owen stands, helpless as he heaves the kitbag back over his shoulder.

“Just you letting me be here is payback enough,” Owen tells him, but he’s walking away. George’s fingers twitch around the weight in his hand as though to abandon the grasp all together and reach out to pull him back. All he can do is follow him out to the hall, watch as he slips on his trainers, all he pull on his coat and readjusts the bag once more -the deal fully sealed.

They’re left standing then, facing each other, close, but just an inch to far. George looks down at the shoe clad feet opposing his own, cold and bare. He stares at the paperweight in his hand. All over, his body aches.

A warm embrace wraps slowly around him then, arms winding, chest pressing until he’s fully engulfed. It’s a small alleviation, but the comfort is incomparable. His own arms respond lethargically, but his head burrows enthusiastically, nuzzles into the hard heat of Owen’s clavicle. It’s a solace he never wants to be ripped from.

“Happy Christmas, Georgie,” Owen whispers, his face lost somewhere in the crown of George’s hair.

“Yeah,” George sighs, muffled further from his hiding. “Happy Christmas.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this felt very weird to write in May/June!  
> I’m sorry this is late -I wanted to have it finished before I headed off on holiday but it wasn’t so I’ve been writing in bits and pieces.   
> Anyway, hello from a -now very hungover- Liverpool fan in Madrid! Obviously I just had to find a bar to watch the match because no way could I afford those tickets, but I was more than happy to join in the celebrations. And what a Prem final and Barbarians game! All round a great weekend for sport.
> 
> I’m not sure what my updates will be like from now on, I’ll be writing when I get the chance, but I highly doubt it’ll be enough for weekly updates, sorry. Should all be back to normal by early July!


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter set during England's second training camp in Portugal during the 2018/19 season, just before the first Six Nations match in Ireland.

The boundaries of his fingers protrude thickly beyond the small buttons they're trying insistently to press. A clumsy inaccuracy sees thumbs and index fingers slip from their intended target on more occasion than one. Chunky remote control handles sit easily in the palms of large hands, snug but slippery where sweat from a competitive intensity has induced the slipperiness of perspiration. There's a hunch in the body, but the face adorns the brightest of smiles, allows escape for uncontrolled laughter in moments of brief, but enormous enjoyment.

Study of it causes a softening of his own expression, unnoticed, unavoidable.

"Fordy."

The sound is distant in a background of white noise. It comes again just as the grin in his vision increases to a profound beam. Something is telling him that the sound is closer than it seems, a call, even, that possibly ought to be answered to. That thought comes just before the eruption of delighted celebration in front of him, the beam glowing around shouts of a victorious happiness and it sinks back into irrelevance once again. His own lips even twitch upwards in the corners, but the call coming again, louder this time, causes the expression to diminish.

"George!"

George flinches as the full-volume shout echoes neighbouring to his ear, the harsh vibrations reverberating off the delicateness inside and shattering him from his distraction back into an unwanted reality. He looks down at the ignored remote in his own hands, wonders just how long it's been since he last pressed one of the buttons he'd been so admiring when regarding another. A quick glance at the television screen tells him that it can't have been a forgivable amount of time, the score on the game swung and finalised far in his opponents favour.

Turning to look at his partner, staving off the threatening flush, he shrugs apologetically.

"Sorry?" He mutters as Ben gives him a look, expectant of explanation.

"Away with the fairies much?" Ben rolls his eyes as Jonny and Owen continue their joint celebrations, so raucous over something so menial and serving a perfect example of the inescapable competitiveness in these camps. "Thought you said you were good at Fifa."

"I said I knew how to play," George corrects absently as his attention is drawn back towards the earlier focus of his admirations.

Owen hasn't stopped smiling, the exertion of the muscles in his cheeks leaving a healthy pink glow in their wake. He's looking now, though, looking closely, eyes intent right back on George's own. He would fluster at being caught staring, would avert the gaze that had caused him the trouble in the first place; but he doesn't. The grin is a far smaller smile now, but George can almost feel the warmth is emits like a physical temperature against his skin. It would be impossible not to return it.

"Mate you weren't even playing," Ben is going on, protesting with snaps of his fingers in George's face, although still he refuses to relent, much too content with the soft look Owen has him fixed with. "I want to switch. Jonny?"

"Nah, no way, you're not lumbering him with me," Jonny argues. George bites his lip as his friends argue over his burden, tries his best to cover the embarrassment with a glare half in Ben's direction, half his focus still intent on Owen -who continues to smile, right in George's damn direction.

"I'll have him," Owen offers, suddenly breaking his silence amidst the debate. He flashes George one last hint of a smile, the subtlest of winks at the slightest of double meanings before he finally averts his attention fully away to face Ben and Jonny's reactions. George misses the eyes on him instantly.

"What and leave me with Lenny?" Jonny scrunches his nose up in clear distaste. "That's almost as bad as having George."

"Um, rude," Ben scolds mildly, looking over at George for any signs of support.

He merely shrugs. Although the competitor in him is lowly offended at his teammates' disparagement of him, George doubts there is even the barest instinct in him to do something preventative of getting him nearer to Owen, closer into his space, his attentions. They've been in this villa for days now and still he can't think of a time he's managed more than five minutes of that since their last meeting before Christmas.

"I can't believe you would take a _Saracen,_ of all people, over me," Ben rambles on, his hand held to his chest in a typically dramatic display. George rolls his eyes, braces himself for the coming, as he watches something flicker over Owen's expression -as if he was ever going to let a comment like that go unrivalled.

"Yeah, well if winning is what you want then a Saracen, of all people, is probably what you need about now." George bites his lip. There's nothing behind it, just a senseless retaliation, and if it were just the two of them alone he would probably be poking his fingers into Owen's ribs with an offended grin and burst of laughter at such a remark. He wishes it was just the two of them.

There's the briefest of pauses, but the tension has it dragging on for what feels like minutes of awkwardness in total silence. The ferocity with which it has George gnawing into the side of his cheek, he's surprised he doesn't break the skin. One glance at Owen and he can tell he's just the same, not that his poker face wouldn't be a steely enough shield to fool anyone else. He may have prodded at a more than slightly sore spot, but to back down now would be a weakness George is well aware Owen just isn't willing to show.

Suddenly, and George finds with immeasurable relief, Ben lets out a harsh, playfully indignant gasp, flushing a beat red as he grins and sets about ripping right back into his offender. Jonny is soon to join and before long George is left watching in delighted glee as his two teammates start tearing Owen apart, everything from any faulted kicking to the technicalities of illegality among many of Saracens tactics.

Owen looks startled for a short period, takes the hits with a surprising dignity and eyes George wearily on occasion every time he looks as though he may bark back. It's permission he's looking for, George realises, confirmation that he didn't upset him with the initial assertion that provoked the verbal beating he's taking.

Even upon this recognition, George leaves him hanging a little longer, far too busy laughing heartily at the most menial jibes about Owen's ridiculously long hair as a teenager and some of the clothes he chooses to adorn on the odd casual occasion. Maybe he doesn't deserve such a torture, not for a comment that was realistically relative in its accuracy, but it's entertainment too easy to enjoy and George finds that he rather likes the sense of power it gives him, knowing that he's the one who gets to decide when Owen is allowed to fight back, knowing that he's the only one that will break his silence.

It's only after one particular look of pleading following a short tickle from Jonny about Owen being an accident to teenage parents that George finally gives him the nod he's been begging for. And he doesn't have to wait long to reap the rewards. It's equally fun, he finds, listening as Owen tears into Ben for his fatherly humour, or Jonny for his flaky eccentricity.

"Sod this," Owen eventually relents after several hard blows thrown his away, although he's still smiling profusely, the insults never reaching beyond a level of banter or being said with any sort of fierceness. "I'm texting Jinksy -I've put up with you Leicester lot on my own for long enough."

"What, this 'Leicester lot' who so clearly need your superior Saracens' input?" Ben teases. "Wouldn't've thought that would be too much for our captain to handle."

George grits his teeth with that reminder. Owen is their captain now, on his own, for the whole upcoming tournament. He's known for a couple of weeks now, and still he hasn't managed a single word of congratulations beyond his initial text. They've been in this villa together, in the whole damn camp together for days now. It's painfully telling of how little time they've managed to get alone, that they ever really manage to get alone. George supposes he could do it now, Ben's comment leaving it as an open invitation, but the sentiment would be strangely out of place, would draw a too much attention in a way unexplainable beyond the truth of his feelings. Besides, he wants to do it properly, to prove in no uncertain terms the sincerity to which his happiness for Owen extends.

"Reckon you need more than the wisdom of just one, mate," Owen returns, barely looking as he is already busy tapping the intended message out into his phone. "Way you're going, you're gonna need my whole damn team."

"Oi," Jonny kicks at Owen's ankles from where they're still next to each other on the sofa adjacent to George's own.

"Uncalled for, Faz," George finally inputs with a small shake of his head, but he's still smiling himself. He's aware that he's been absent, unusually so for a group he's so friendly with and he would tell himself that he's worried about how that appears when really he's desperate just to steal Owen's attention back for himself more than anything else.

His attempt is well placed and Owen looks to him immediately. He returns the small smile upon noticing George's own, but there's a softening around the edges of the hard lined countenance with which he'd been previously regarding their company.

"Sorry," he mutters with a slight shrug of one shoulder and it's played off well as nothing, but George can tell he means it, can tell it's a true enough attempt to make up for an offence that was never really caused.

The sound of the door opening interrupts them then and George is almost surprised at how quickly Owen's backup has made it over, but the proximity of the villas is such that the walk was unlikely to have taken more than a couple of minutes. Part of him would resent just how little privacy camps like these allow for, but he can't help loving every minute -even as he loses Owen's focus once again in favour of his own teammates.

"Bloody hell," he attunes to hear Jamie saying, notices as Elliot stalks in behind him with the same ever-presence he always provides whenever the Saracens hooker is in company. Shrugging off his jacket with a shudder he announces, "I thought Portugal was meant to be hot."

"It is January, mate," Ben points out rather bluntly. "And night time."

"Alright," Jamie chides cooingly in response to the tone. He takes little care in launching himself down into the small space that's left beside Jonny and George watches with amusement as Owen rolls his eyes, forced to shift uncomfortably close against the armrest. The far more gracious Elliot opts to seat himself quietly on floor. "What bee got into your bonnet?"

"I did," Owen announces proudly, grinning as Jamie leans over a visibly disgruntled Jonny to reward him with a high-five.

"Yeah, he was ripping into us so successfully that he had to call you for back-up," Jonny bats their hands apart where they linger over the top of him, forming the perfect barrier between them.

Perhaps it's completely ridiculous -scratch that- it's utterly irrational, but George can't help the hit of a sudden wave of jealousy. He feels just like he did as a child combating with his brothers for his dad's attention, but he can't help it. It's been the first time in weeks since he's truly had it, but now that he's had the feeling of being completely Owen's intended attention, just seconds without it feel arduous and tiresome.

The distance between their two sofas isn't so great that George couldn't reach out and touch him, so he does just that. Only a leg, only far enough that his chilly, bare toes brush against the exposed skin at Owen's ankles. It's not enough for anyone else to notice, certainly not to pay it any mind if they were to, but it draws another look from his target, questioning concern etched into the slight tilt of his head.

Taking a moment, he shakes his own in answer, realising that upon receiving his desired outcome he has nothing to follow it up with, nothing to allow him to keep it. Owen simply nods shifting the leg that George had disturbed and entwining it to hook around the other side of his own, pressing his foot against the top of cold toes until a warmth seeps into the skin.

"I thought you called us round for Fifa, Faz," Jamie is still saying and it snatches Owen easily back into the conversation, but the steady pressure is enough to keep George sated now, constant and reassuring.

"I did," Owen says. "Thought these two idiots," he gestures, flapping an arm into the swathes of space between Ben and Jonny, "would prefer to take you on instead of arguing over who is better out of George and me."

The irony of that statement is almost laughable considering what percentage of the rugby following population have probably been having the exact same debate recently, for the whole of the last five years even. George tries to shake the thought that that may not even be the debate any longer, unable to ignore all the words of discontent he's read regarding Cipriani's omission from the Six Nations squad.

"I'm up for that," Elliot pipes up, Jamie shrugging agreeably. Even Ben and Jonny seem happy enough to ignore the minor jibe in favour of returning to the game and with a small reshuffle to the seating arrangements around them that is just what they do. George doesn't even care when he's the one who ends up shoved into the armrest, his club mates squeezing down next to them; Owen never relents his touch.

Never one particularly fond of videogames, George is more than contented to sit back and watch. Elliot has kept his place on the floor although he's moved to sit at Jamie's feet. Not something too strange not to feel comfortable squishing onto the sofa. George supposes as he considers Elliot's position in a group like this one: a close enough friend, definitely in camps like this one, but not a club mate, bondless.

That said, he and Jamie spend seemingly all of their time glued at the hip whenever the England squad meets. George takes a second to consider their friendship, the way one of Jamie's elbows dig jovially into the crown of the fullback's head as he uses it as a rest where he's holding the console remote. He takes another to consider the proximity of them as more than just a friendship, of the couple they have the potential to be. It's a notion that makes George giggle aloud, struggle to keep it under his breath.

"What is it?" Owen mutters quietly towards him and George distracts himself from his own amusement to catch sight of his smiling bewilderment. No one else cottoned on to his laughter, too immersed in their own worlds that are just about starting to increase in volume. George can hardly say he's surprised that Owen did, though.

"Nothing," George shakes his head, teeth capturing his lower lip in an attempt to conceal his mirth further. Instead of replying, Owen merely presses his foot more firming atop of George's own, squeezes their ankles more tightly together. George can't help but be drawn to the feeling, one that makes him pause for thought. Perhaps he shouldn't find the idea of such a coupling so amusing, one that is nowhere near beyond possible. He hopes no such pairing is beyond possible.

Owen's phone buzzes then and he is stolen away once again, so George settles for watching the digital game unfolding in front of him, cheering occasionally along with his two friends next to him as the levels rowdiness climb higher and higher. In the end they bag themselves a nicely comfortable win.

More than anything George is bemused at just how intensely competitive a virtual game of football can become between a group of people who have cared for little more than rugby their entire lives. This evening continues to prove that the merciless nature of such a group has no ends at the two teams go on to argue about how one or the other may have employed tactics equivalent to cheating. It's all very entertaining to bear witness to.

They've just about hit an unintended moment of quiet, everyone just about out of accusations to throw when they're interrupted by the buzz of a phone. George turns to see that Owen is still busily typing away, the device still vibrating in his hands. George's brow pinches, questioning, failing to miss the flicker of mischief that flashes across Jamie's face.

"That your special friend, Faz?" Jamie grins in blatant teasing. Owen doesn't look away from the screen, fingers not faltering for a moment as they continue to type.

"Shut up," he grumbles, gruff and unfazed, although the faintest tint of a blush appears to be prickling in his cheeks. George frowns.

"Special friend?" Ben enquires, endlessly nosy.

"We're convinced Owen has a 'special friend'," Jamie is positively grinning as he explains; Owen still hasn't looked away from the phone. "He's always on his phone, smiling all soft and shit. It's adorable really."

"Aw, Faz," Ben coos. Owen scowls, finally dropping the device down beside him. George feels his larynx throb in his throat, suddenly totally intent on discovering every detail.

"It was just my mum," Owen sighs. George hopes that's true.

"Sure it is," Jamie grins mockingly. "He won't tell us anything about her, mind -won't even tell us that she exists. Not that it takes a genius to work that much out."

"Who said anything about 'she'?" Owen snaps back drawing a mocking cackle out of both Jamie and Ben alike. Biting his tongue, George casts a short glance around the room. Elliot lets out a visible, although small chuckle of his own, yet doesn't offer his own input. It's easy enough to assume that he's heard enough over recent camps, that he gets the point without explicit explanation. Jonny looks a bit confused, but he doesn't say anything and George thinks he must get it by now.

As much as he's filled with an admiration for Owen's brazen confidence, George is so thankful for this group, so endlessly grateful for the unquestioning acceptance of the group around him. As much as that should be enough, the knowledge that not everyone is so easily open leaves a bitter taste inside his mouth.

"Anyway, I told you," Owen goes on, picking up his phone to wave it at Jamie just as it buzzes again and reveals the notification of a message from Colleen. "It's just my mum."

"Sure," Jamie drawls over the word, lazily smirking. "And it was 'just your mum' the other week when you were stoic as ever despite having just been told you were going to be bloody England captain for the Six Nations and then spent the next hour smiling like a dopey idiot from one look at your phone."

Owen shakes his head, but his remaining silence and the small, sheepish smile he's clearly straining to keep from his face are telling enough. George wriggles his toes underneath the steady, remaining pressure from Owen, but he daren't distract more than that. Silently, he's desperate for Jamie to go on, equally terrified of what he might reveal. The lump in his throat is too thick, anyway, unable to speak despite his internal conflict.

"Also, Maro offered to set him up with this really fit Instagram model that he knows just so he would have a date for our Christmas party," Jamie is really beaming with his deviant indiscretions. George clenches his fist. "And Skips here says no! Like, we're talking proper fucking fit, lads -I thought he'd had a brain haemorrhage or something."

The language is distasteful enough that George is half inclined to speak up, but if he didn't trust his voice a few moments ago, he definitely doesn't now. A sharp look from Owen thrown in his club mate's direction is trenchant enough to show he doesn't appreciate it much either, but the flush in his cheeks is growing now and steadfast undermining any protests he may hold.

Any complaints George may have, however, feel largely insignificant, because apparently Owen is turning down dates with beautiful women now and all he can really attest to is the sudden overpowering urge to know _why._

"Then -he's meant to have a load of us round for drinks just before Christmas, right, just after the Exeter game I think-" George holds his breath. "And all of a sudden he's telling us all to piss off and that we can't come, in a right mood and stuff, only to get back to training after Boxing Day looking like all his stars had aligned or something."

Pink tint is no longer a reasonable way to describe the scarlet blush of blood rushing up into Owen's face. He's biting his lip around a faint smile, eyes cast down to where his hands are clutched in his lap, quiet, not arguing a word. It's an image that is so painful un-Owen, no fight or fire left in him. George wants to reach out to him, wants more than just the hidden press of their ankles. And then there's that same urge all over again -forget everyone else and just lean over and kiss him here and now.

He doesn't. Of course he doesn't.

"Look at him," Ben cries sounding utterly delighted. "He's completely smitten."

"I-" Owen croaks. George wriggles his toes get again, but Owen is pointedly looking down, intent on not sparing the slightest glance in George's direction. Somehow George doesn't think he needs it. Somehow this is all the confirmation he's needed and more. Every seed of doubt has been unsown through nothing more than the messy syntax of Jamie's storytelling. The red of Owen's skin deepens at the choke in his voice. He really is _smitten._

"Well whoever this person is," Elliot starts, laughingly sincere. "They've clearly got you good, Faz."

George doesn't miss the decidedly ambiguous pronoun usage and his chest swells a little at the comfortable safety that it encompasses. He doesn't miss Owen's lip quirk at Elliot's sentiments either; that makes his chest feel as though it may burst.

From his peripherals, Jonny looks caught. He has been unusually quiet, George begins to realise, and in contrast with Elliot's implied acceptance, a short-fused anticipation prickles at his nerve endings. It could be likely that he just doesn't know what to say, but that is a state that George so doubts Jonny has ever experienced. No, it feels too wrong to think that Jonny would ever not be totally on board with either Owen's or George's own lifestyle -he's too good of a friend, too good of a guy. Even so, too much of life has taught George the hard way that he simply cannot trust assumption such as that.

"Don't worry, Faz, you're not the only one," Ben buts back in and George can't help but be distracted far from any plaguing thought by that, looking at his very _married_ best friend in a bewildered worry. "Fordy here has gone and let himself fall in love as well."

Oh. _Oh._

George's questioning sinks into a deep, simmering glare very quickly. Trust Ben and his big mouth. Owen is finally looking at him again, unsurprising with _that_ kind of revelation. Now it's George's turn to look pointedly away.

" _Mate,"_ he growls lowly, but Ben is looking totally remorseless, too busy grinning at the amused expressions on Jamie and Elliot's faces.

"What?" Jonny yelps suddenly, the burst of sound almost enough to make George jump along with the overwhelming flood of relief at just hearing him say something. An unusual feeling given the usual difficulties at getting him to shut up. "Why is this the first I'm hearing of it? You're in _love_?"

"Thanks for that," George sidles Ben with the best distain he can muster, but it still isn't enough to wipe away the smugness that has settled in to his features. Owen is still staring at him, his face unreadable from where George refuses to meet his gaze.

"Who is she? How long have you been together?" Jonny interrogates, unfazed by George's discomfort.

"We're not-" George pauses, unsure of exactly what he should say. He feels his ankle squeezed tightly in its entwine with Owen's, feels the pressure of the ball of his foot, can see the steady stare out of the corner of his eye. "We're not together."

"But you're in love with her?" Jamie asks, an unhidden although light-hearted judgement behind the words.

"No," George answers tenuously. He's not in love -is he? Owen glances down at his lap once again; George bites his tongue.

"I can't believe you didn't tell me about this," Jonny rants on. "When did you meet her? How?"

"A while ago," George clenches his jaw around the reply. These are questions he really doesn't want to be answering, not with Owen _right there_ , their skin still stiffly glued. And that damn pronoun is already starting to wear on him.

"What does that mean?" Jonny exclaims. Elliot and Jamie are both busy chuckling away in the corner, even Ben who's more than used to their club mate's antics is stifling laughter at the crescendo of his dramatic exasperation. He's still looking far too pleased with himself, completely unawares as to just what he's caused. Agitation bubbles in George's gut. "Who is she? Do we know her?"  

_She. Her._ Snap.

"Fucks sake," George clenches his fists, shoves himself upwards into a stiff upright, his foot dislodging abruptly as he draws away. Instantly the skin there chills, a stinging rush of cold air to the slick of sweat. Owen's foot claps quietly against the floor as it's support is ripped free. "It's nothing, okay? So drop it, yeah? It's nothing."

An awkward quiet falls. George doesn't care. Owen turns his head to face fully away. George grinds his teeth.

Ben is eyeing him warily, finally starting to look a little contrite for his revelations, and George is suddenly immeasurably thankful for Jonny's inability to leave any kind of silence alone as he suddenly starts talking about something else in his classically outlandish style, apparently unbothered by George's outburst.

Attention safely averted, George exhales steadily, stretches his leg out once again, probes gently at the side of Owen's calf. It takes a long second, but Owen lifts his foot, allows George to slide his own back in beneath it.

With the later hours wearing onwards, it isn't too long before Jamie and Elliot make the move to head back to their own villa. George ignores the slight thickness remaining in the air as goodbyes are uttered, decides mordantly that Jonny's unintelligible ramblings are too tiring to listen on for much longer.

"Well lads, fun as this has been," Ben starts upon seeing their guests to the door. George grits his teeth at the accusatory irony. "I think I'm gonna hit the hay."

"Sounds like a plan," Jonny lifts himself from the sofa, moves to follow Ben towards the bedrooms. The phrase _good riddance_ feels all to apt. "Night lads."

"Goodnight," Owen mumbles impassively, but seems to study closely until their company has disappeared safely out of sight. Clearly assured by their disappearance, he fixes George with a look. Slowly, he lifts his arm.

It doesn't take so much as a second for George to launch himself forward, the small space left between Owen and the armrest just the perfect size for a snug fit. George crawls underneath the offered arm, curls against Owen's chest. Breath is hot on his temple as Owen turns towards him to speak, holding his arm firm, his lips barely grazing the tips of George's short hair.

"Hello," he whispers.

George presses in closer. "Hi," he mutters in reply.

Fingers trail softly up his bicep where Owen's arm is twined tightly around his shoulder. George allows his eyes to fall closed. This is what he's been missing for too many weeks now.

"You could tell him, you know?" Owen suggests, explicit detail not required. "Might make things a bit easier."

"I know," George replies.

"Jonny's a good guy," Owen assures, his face still close enough that the air between them is warm.

"That doesn't mean anything and you know it," George mumbles cynically. "He didn't exactly shower you in reassurances earlier."

"I was just joking around," Owen huffs a short laugh. George is well aware of how petulant he sounds, but the residual irritation hanging over from his previous outburst is yet to work its way out of his system. "He probably just didn't know what to say; felt a bit awkward or something."

"Probably," George sighs. He doesn't want to talk about Jonny anymore, doesn't want to talk about Ben or Jamie or Elliot; he isn't sure he really wants to talk about anything. Owen's continuously emitted heat feels nice beneath him, the structure of his torso providing the perfect pillow. No more words and this would be faultless.

Still: "Congratulations, by the way," George drops his voice down low, hardly above a whisper. Too much noise would feel earth-shattering. "On the captaincy."

"You already said that," Owen tells him, his own voice hushed low, his lips now close enough that George can feel the brush of them against his scalp.

"I texted it," George argues just to be contrary. It hadn't been proper before, this feels proper.

"Yeah," Owen breathes. There's a pause then, Owen's chest stuttering underneath George's weight as it draws in a tight breath. The lips against him begin to form around something before they relax again. It takes another beat for Owen to exhale again fully. "It made me smile."

In his chest, George feels his heart clench. There's nothing left to deny any longer. This is admission without implication.

Despite the wintery Portuguese weather lashing away outside, the room feels warm, as warm as George's precisely heated home just a couple of days before Christmas. George breathes in happily. Owen sighs.

Absently, George asks, "you okay?"

"Yeah," Owen hums. His fingers curl loosely just above George elbow, his lips rounding into a small pout as they press in fully to the side of George's head. "It's nothing."  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Um... so I'm back. I'm sorry for promising writing while I was away and then proceeding to not deliver on any of it. I honestly did try, but none of it was up to a standard that I was happy with -I'm really bad at writing without a proper computer/keyboard- and I haven't ended up using even a word of it in the final draft of this chapter which is pretty telling of its quality. I can only hope that in the end it was at least slightly worth the wait.  
> I did, however, promise to be back on schedule by July -which it now is- and that is a promise I intend to keep!


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ireland 20 - 32 England

If there is one thing George will be glad to see the back of, it's meetings. _These_ meetings in particular. One on one, ominous, both knowing exactly what is about to be said, the blow being cushioned with ramblings of arbitrary fillers and reasoning as decisions are explained away, lost in precisely selected grammar that still somehow manages to leave George muddled for answers. The hopeful flicker in him, the small part that simmers just below all the cynicism had thought that maybe the autumn had shown the last of them. It hadn't.

Already, barely five minutes in, he's given up on attuning to the exact words, leaving his head coach speaking justifications into thin air. The only utterance he'd needed had been one of the earliest spoken -bench. With the now painfully familiar reality decisively established, George doubts there can possibly be much more that he needs to know.

Instead a more tedious and exhaustive task takes on his full focus. Just keeping his eyes from fluttering, preventing fatigue from winning is steadfast becoming a near impossibility, the background noise of defeatist mutterings of expectation from Eddie the only allowance for his propensity to wakefulness.

The earlier than usual morning skills session had been one of necessity, George is well aware, full advantage taken of the Portuguese sunshine before being bundled straight onto the plane to Dublin. He supposes it was just his luck that he had spent the full two and a half hour flight nestled between a boisterously bickering mismatch of Jonny and Manu, that Ben had slotted immediately into the coach seat next to him upon landing and chattered with an amicable energy for the entire journey to the hotel, that here he is, the first ushered away to be desolated in a meeting room whilst the rest of the squad retreat to their rooms for a nap under the guise of unpacking. Of course it would be him.

Clamping his teeth down into his lower lip hard, George stifles a yawn just before it breaks free, feeling his eyes tingle as they water with the strain of effort. The exhaustion leaves him wondering if they're being too far strung out, or whether it's just his own lack of stamina and energy that keeps getting him here, if the coaches don't trust his abilities to keep up. Maybe everyone else is just fine.

"Are you okay?" in his  mental absence, George is vaguely aware of the break in mantra, but it takes more than a long moment for his haze to fracture. "George?"

"Hmm?" George feels his head twitch as he re-attunes, coming to with an involuntary hum breaking through the firm seal of his lips. It's with a slight horror that he realises the directed concern on Eddie's face as he appears to study him closely. George coughs, blinks rapidly to clear the mist from his eyes, all too aware of what it may look like, all too aware of how little it will help his cause. "Sorry," he apologises quietly.

There's a softening to Eddie's features then, a smile breaking through as lines crease into his forehead. Doing his best to return the gesture, George doesn't trust for one second that he plays it off to an even partially convincing degree.

"As I was saying," Eddie goes on to say, clearly more satisfied at the level of attention George has him levelled with, blissfully unaware to the anxious embarrassment it is fuelled by. "How would you feel about taking on the role of vice captaincy for this tournament?"

And, wait.  "What?"

George instantly flushes at his own informality, at the warmness further tinting Eddie's smile. He would correct himself, wants to rectify the unfiltered reaction, but his throat feels stuck around words he suddenly can't find. How would he feel about _what_?

"It would mean a few more meetings," Eddie tells him, heated with a sarcastic warning no doubt regarding George's previous haze. George feels his blush deepen. "You'd be involved alongside Owen and of course take his place as captain were he to be unavailable for any reason."

George doesn't fail to notice the carefully choice words, how no possible indication is made that Owen will ever be wantonly substituted. Perhaps it's a good thing, George can't tell, perhaps that shows Eddie still sees them as a worthy pairing rather than two separate entities. Perhaps that's wishful thinking.

"I-" George knows he needs to find the words somewhere, knows despite himself that this is hardly an offer he can refuse, can even be seen to second guess. "Of course."

Again, Eddie smiles. George shifts in his seat. "I see a lot of leadership potential in you, George," his coach tells him. "During the match against Japan, and in every game and training session since. I can trust you to take on such duties in important  a year as this, yes?"

"Yes," George responds, not missing a beat this time, not missing exactly what is meant by _important year_. No, he knows precisely what this means. It's a struggle to keep his own smile from creeping onto his face, so he doesn't fight too hard.

Any sense of fatigue is all but gone as they finally wrap up the tail ends of the meeting and George's haze has dissipated into the clearest thinking he's had in months. The disappointment at yet another omission from the start sheet still lingers like an ache in his joints, but the reigniting of a faith in his abilities, in a _leadership_ he'd so believed to have failed in his last shot at, has that tightness loosening.

It's some kind of autopilot that leads him straight to Owen's room, subconscious taking over. George hadn't even realised he knew the number, hadn't thought he'd heard it amidst the chaos that is room distribution. Conceivably, he must unknowingly listen to everything where Owen is concerned.

The thought is one he shakes as he raps on the door. His knuckles are barely halfway through their second blow as the structure swings open in front of him, leaving his strike to fall into thin air as it only just misses Owen's chest upon his appearance.

At sight of him, George grins. "Hi," he greets excitably, but is forced to take half a step back as Owen shuts the door behind himself, crowding them deeper into the hallways.

"Hi," Owen returns, the responding smile short as he adjusts himself uncomfortably, looking breathless and hurried and half as though he rolled out of bed only seconds ago. George feels his grin quiver, but makes to continue only to be cut off as Owen beats him to the mark. "Listen, Fordy I've got a meeting  -I think I'm running late already, so."

He's already making off down the hallway, unknowingly following the exact line George had taken to get to him. George's smile falls as he takes a couple paces of his own to catch up.

"Okay," he says, but any ounce of attention he may have managed to capture is already gone, the tiredness of Owen's eyes set dead ahead. George reaches out, can't help himself, grabs Owen by the wrist, pulling him to an abrupt halt. "Can we talk later?"

Owen stares down to where they're linked. For a second George swears he sees the glimmers of agitation flash across his face. Were it ever there, it's gone just as quickly as Owen looks back up to his face, the line of their eyes joined as they always should be.

"Uh, sure," Owen rushes through, flustered. "I'll, uh- I'll find you after dinner or something."

With that he tugs his arm free, makes off once again flashing just the faintest hint of an apologetic smile. It takes another moment for him to pause again, to take a long glance around the empty hotel corridor. Owen turns back then, shoulders hunching in what looks like a controlled, sighing heave as he reaches out, this time to take George's wrist in his own hand. One short pull and George goes easily, allows himself to be pulled flush against Owen's chest even for the briefest of moments, just for the most fleeting press of lips to his forehead.

"Okay," George repeats dumbly, quietly. It's a good few seconds of simply watching as Owen walks away for him to quite muster the strength in his legs to move again.

He heads towards his own room, collapses onto the neatly sheeted bed. The exhaustion, thought escaped with the elation of the revelation of his new role seems to have caught back up with him as suddenly as it had gone.

Even with the fullest intentions to sleep the remainder of the afternoon through, George doesn't catch a wink. Mind and thoughts swirling, he struggles to come to grips with exactly what has happened in such a short space of time. Suddenly he's gone from a back up fly half, a solid filler on the bench to step up in case of injury to Owen to his second as a captain, from small in potential to seemingly indispensible.

And then there was _that_ interaction. Whatever that was. Rationality is tough to grapple with through his weariness, but the fragments of it that manage to break through tell George that it had all been in Owen's frenzied rushing. But the phlegmatic brush-off had stung, however irrational it is, the fragrant agitation at George's intrusion, the lack of intimacy at the commonness of the choice nickname all has him reeling in internalised debate.

But then there had been that hug, that _kiss -_ if that is really what he's going to let himself sink deep enough as to call the dry brush of a mouth against his skin. Bitterly he racks over how forced it could have seemed, born of nothing more than some semblance of guilt emitted only on behalf of whatever this is that they've become.

George feels his head throb as he blinks away the precipitation in his eyes that he tells himself is simply a result of too long spent staring up at the ceiling. Rolling onto his side, he shoves his face as far as he can into the pillow beneath him, uncaring of the restriction to his air supply. God he's tired.

Dinner rolls around before unconsciousness can catch him, hours gone by in an agonisingly sleepless siesta. George forces himself down to the painfully loud dining room, full rowdiness restored among the no doubt well rested team. He envies the bright-eyed smiles surrounding sharp bursts of laughter as he winds his way through the tables with shrouded lethargy, the gathering of his club mates fixed in bleary vision.

He hears Owen before he sees him, his familiar cackle sounding clear amidst a chorus of others. Without deviating from his path, George averts his set gaze. Off in the corner he sees him, surrounded by the expected Saracens entourage. The captain offers a small smile as their eyes catch, his laughter slowly dying. There's no beckon behind it, no obvious attempt at invitation and somehow George can't muster the confidence to assume it. Offering a small return of the gesture, he continues on, an unspecified ache setting in deep.

Ben greets him with a curt pat on the arm when he finally settles into the space left for him and George can provide little more than a roll of his eyes, catching on to the sparks of outlandish discussion flying back and forth between Manu and Jonny -he's surprised they hadn't exhausted all topics on the plane journey over.

"Alright?" Ben asks him, unusually tentative. Perhaps his scowl isn't as well concealed as he had hoped. Ellis is eyeing him from across the table, timid concern hinting over the quiet of his shyness. George smiles at the new recruit encouragingly, reassuring, before turning back to Ben.

"Shattered," he tells him honestly, omitting only the most enormous of details. His friend merely nods his understanding and their attention is easily averted as food is beginning to be served around them. George hadn't quite realised the extent of his hunger until it is relinquished, barely aware enough to be thankful for the cease in crazed conversation beside him as they all allow for contented distraction. Or so he thinks.

"So mate," Jonny breaks the comfortable silence with a turn in his attention and George has to bite his lip to quell the bark of refusal threatening to slip free. "You ready to tell me about this mystery girlfriend of yours yet?"

How he wishes he hadn't bitten back that bark. It's all he can do not to groan.

"Fordy has a girlfriend?" Manu asks in the absence of a reply, sounding about as surprised as George feels agitated.

"I don't have a girlfriend," he mutters guiltlessly, focussing far too intently on the few vegetables left littering his plate. It's no word of a lie.

"Well apparently he has a girl-something," Jonny ploughs on matter-of-factly and George has to sink his teeth into the side of his cheek, the that sting zings through the flesh a required distraction.

No he doesn't. He doesn't have a girl-anything. He never has. He never will. He doesn't want one.  And that is all he wants to conceal and advertise at one in some kind of twisted paradox. Part of him thinks he would to scream it from the rooftops if it would only save him from this conversation, and yet the reality of even those around this table being aware of his frank truth, those who he is closest to, has a terrified twist of anxiety coursing through his gut.

"That's not what Ben said," Jonny continues to counter. George has to spare a scowl in his friend's direction at the reminder, forever resentful of the big mouth that first got him into this mess. At least Ben has the decency to look something akin to mournful.

"Technically all I said was that he's in love," Ben offers weakly and that's enough to have George flexing out to punch his arm. That doesn't help. It doesn't help at all. This is an absolute torture.

"In love?" Manu grins, looking positively gleeful at the new revelation; even Ellis seems to be doing his best to cover a smirk. George really hates his team sometimes.

"Technically all _I_ said was that I liked someone," George deepens his discontent to a stern glower fixed in Ben's direction, barely satisfied with the sheepish smile it elicits. He refuses to waver as his voice quivers around the intended ambiguity, instead turning to Jonny, gaze equally fierce, finger pointing accusingly. "And I thought I told you to drop it. It's nothing."

Jonny holds his arms in defence, but George can tell he hasn't quite seen the back of this.

"Sorry, why haven't I been invited to these conversations before?" Manu asks, still grinning in mock offence. "You like someone, Fordy? Do tell."

"There's nothing to tell!" George sighs, exasperated and unbothered at how genuinely agitated he sounds through his gritted teeth.

"Yeah and don't act like you wouldn't get bored talking about that kind of shit," Ben inserts, but George can tell it's through little more than a guilty conscience. "Why don't you and Gengey here talk about line outs or something equally boring -you're basically a forward anyway."

"Hey!" Ellis defends as he's brought into things so suddenly. George can't help a small smile at the pink that begins to spread across his cheeks, entertaining enough to fracture his anxiety. "Forwards gossip just as much as backs do. You wouldn't guess the things I've heard."

"Okay we are definitely coming back to _that_ ," Manu asserts with a short, shocked laugh, although he quickly turns back to George, smile sinking into a smirk. The last thing he wants to see. "First I want to hear more about this girl of yours, Fordy."

"Yeah, why don't you want to tell us, mate?" Jonny asks in his ever persistent way and George really could just slap him. "We're all friends here."

"No we're not," George hisses, but the laughter he receives in return tells him his attempts at aggression fall on deaf ears. Depleted, he sighs, "I don't want to talk about it, okay? So fuck off, alright?"

"Oi," Jonny reaches over to flick him and George immediately clutches a hand to the mildly wounded area. "We're only showing an interest in your life -there's no need for any of that."

George practically snorts. "Interest?" He demands, rolling his eyes. He can't help but smile slightly, though, feeling the tension in his chest ease just a little as the directed pressure begins to relieve into an easier banter. "Please, you lot are nothing more than a bunch of nosy pricks."

"Pretty much," Manu concedes easily and George watches amused as Jonny slumps with the instant debunk of all his efforts to form a reasonable excuse. "Don't act like you could expect anything less in this team, mate. You gonna tell us or not?"

"Not a chance," George shrugs, revelling in the groan of protest it draws from Jonny. He can be certain that this line of interest into his personal life won't stop here, but perhaps he can draw it to a halt for the evening. With slow, extended intention, he paints the falsest of smirks across his lips. "Sorry mate," he pats Jonny on the arm, deliberately condescending. "Just don't think it would be appropriate for your vice captain to reveal so much personal information."

"Vice captain?" Ben squawks suddenly. George grins, allows the new following interrogation to wash over him in alleviation to his edged perturbation.    

Behind him, somewhere only slightly distant, Owen's laughter sounds once again, clear above any background noise, as painfully obvious indication of the focus of his attention, far diverted from George. An entirely inexcusable and yet overtly in-ignorable pang blooms in his chest.

Or perhaps it isn't quite so inexcusable.

Later, George is left blinking at the harsh red light of the cheap digital clock beside his bed. One-thirty-one. How on earth he's still awake, he isn't sure, and yet he is, waiting for a knock he can be almost completely assured is not coming -not at this time.

The promise had been so fleeting, so lost in a haze of busy fluster that it was likely innocently forgotten. Yet the gears in George's brain continue to whirl, keeping him awake as he pathetically wonders whether absence of Owen's pledged visit really is so innocuous, or whether it is more an intended avoidance.

Turning over, away from the bleak light ominously filling any localised vision with a devilish glow, George finally allows his eyes to close. The next two days promise to be even more exhausting than the last. Losing sleep won't do him any good.

Not that that means he doesn't.

~~~~~

Captain's run proves a cohesion in the team that has been building for months and yet has become so cemented in just a couple of short weeks. And George stands out like a sore thumb for everyone else's united success.

In nothing more than the lightest of drizzle, his grip on the ball struggles to fasten effectively, slipping free more than once. Seemingly every single one of his attempts to kick wobbles sideways or bounces off a post, forced to watch as all strikes of Owen's boot sail cleanly and unhindered through or towards target while barely one string of coherent words gets spoken between them.  

Perhaps it is that alone that sees him where he is the next day, parked firmly on the familiar cold of the bench, internal heating fighting against the bitter Irish winter winds, watching for seventy eight agonisingly exquisite minutes as his team play as though they're the very best team in the world.

Just ninety seconds in George finds himself clapping and cheering in a stunned daze, Jonny sailing over the try line for a score before anyone could tell what was happening. It sets the tone for a match without him, a match totally dominated by a pack of backs that he isn't a part of. Seeing the way in which they play, he really starts to doubt that he should be.

Elliot is everywhere, Jack always chasing at his toes -both of them scoring and offloading, passing and receiving like this is the easiest game in the world, like Ireland are some kind of second tier nation. Henry finds score after score of his own, a player previously forgotten to many of Eddie's selections showing how every omission of him from the team over the past few years had been a devastating mistake. Manu displays the power and skill that anyone would miss, that everyone has missed -coach, player and fan alike. Those two are assured centres now, George can be certain of that. In their coach's eyes, Owen is a twelve no longer.

And so he shouldn't be.

As more than a captain, rather as a fly half, George watches, awed at his command of the pitch. He takes the ball to the line every time, pushing the Irish defences ever backwards. His kicks find their target nigh-on every time, sailing between uprights or into the arms of their chasing attack. Passes flow with ease through his hands, fingers never faltering in a strong and affirmed grip.

It's a way George _knows_ that he himself can play, a way he hasn't had the chance to show in months.

So it isn't until the seventieth minute that he gets his call, the call he'd been waiting the entire match to hear. He tries not to think so bitterly that it's just in use of all substitutions, that he's entrusted only now with all risk of loss eliminated. George can't see how exactly he's necessary at this point, however.

With the feel of a television camera trained on him George stares away in a stoic avoidance, trying not to think that it is his face alone plastered on screens around the stadium, around the country. He knows just what he'd be thinking if he saw it -'you've missed out on all the glory'. Even that feels like an over-estimation given his apparent unimportance.

All thoughts of such notion fade away upon the restart, the first of a mere handful of touches he gets to the ball. Before he knows it those final two minutes are up, eventless, easily forgotten in such a memorable game along with a non-existent impact from the smallest and apparently most unnecessary finisher.

The rest of the team are screaming all around him, bouncing off invisible walls and bounding into each other for bone crushing hugs of delighted disbelief. This may be the greatest game George has ever been a part of, beating a team who have only just beaten the long standing world number one, and yet he had barely been a part of it at all.

He allows Ben to grab him tight, for Jonny to join on over the top. For them it's a win that really means something, something that has been foreign to them at a club level for an achingly long string of weeks. Others start to attach themselves then, attracted to the united celebrations like magnets. George can't help thinking how wrong it feels -the centre of a group that he'd done little more than sit and observe from the outskirts. Suddenly the restriction to his airflow doesn't seem to be a mere result of the surroundings, even if their eventual dispersion does allow him to breathe a little easier.

A handshake line has already formed, the England players littered minimally against a sea of desolated green desperate in their decimation to see the arduous formality through as quickly as possible. A shame for them that so many rose crested celebrations are refusing to play ball quite so easily.

George joins himself readily to the back of the queue, attention only half paid as he mutters reflexive commiserations or brief re-congratulations with teammates of his own. Just feet in front of him, he sees Owen heading his way. Unusually, he can't remember the last words they exchanged, can only wait in breathless anticipation at what the coming will be.

As they reach each other, George is grabbed into a tight hug, so suddenly intense that it almost knocks the wind out of him. There's a mouth at his ear, breath tickling his sinuses. And then it's gone in less than a second, without a single word.

Flustered, George throws himself into the next handshake, face glazing over in a veiled forbearance of the neurons firing questioning confusion throughout his brain. It's the most they've felt of each other for more than three days and yet the silent briefness would suggest it meagre and perfunctory, while it's vigour was so much more. It should be a relief after hours sat detached in meetings yesterday and this morning, discussing leadership tactics and scenarios, speaking only through the medium of coaches. But somehow it isn't, somehow it's all starting to steadily worsen.

George doesn't understand. Healy fixes him with a look as George squeezes the prop's hand just that little bit too tight. He can't bring himself to care, only to move on hastily, evermore desperate for things to be over with.

Unfortunately for George, however, game days don't tend to work that way.

Hours later, with scarcely a handful of seconds worth of alone time in between, George is left shifting uncomfortably in his suit as the prolonged post-match dinner drags on even long after the meal has ended.

He's clung to Ben for the most part as well as a small collective of others, set apart from the rest of the celebrating hordes and commiserating Irishmen as he listens to his friend relay story after story about his family; all of which George has undoubtedly heard before. It's just his attempt to fill space and as flits of people come and go it's easy enough to tell how tiresome George ought to be finding it -even Ellis manages to break himself away and integrate with others in spite of his shyness. The quieter bubble the boredom provides, however, is a comfort for him.

Staring off into space as Ben starts complaining about school fees or something equally uninteresting, George finds himself drawn once again to the pair chattering between themselves only a few feet away. Owen and his dad have apparently managed to escape their duties long enough to come together.

Momentarily, George wonders what their talking about. No doubt it would be rugby related, no doubt more interesting than whatever topic Ben is rambling on about now. The wince on Andy's face as Owen's spreads into a grin tells him the game just played is the likely subject.

A few days ago, George thinks he would have abandoned this post without a second thought, inserted himself easily and remorselessly without invite into the father-son interaction. Now he's not so sure he would dare.

He can see Owen's eyes flitting to the side every few seconds, clearly distracted even as he talks on so intensely, lips moving at an impossibly fast pace. George refuses to let them draw his focus -that's the last thing he needs to torture himself with. Still, he can't help but wonder whether it's him causing the diversion of attention. Probably. Possibly.

It's fingers snapping in front of his face that finally bring him back to the land of the living, only then noticing that Ben has drawn a halt on his maunder, that there's only three of them left in a group that had already felt intimately small. The fingers open out into a wave, the abnormally large hand of a certain winger flapping in front of George's face. His nose screws up as he bats it away.

"What?" He grumbles, discontented at the brutish interruption.

"Haven't heard you speak in about three hours, mate," Jonny informs him, even looking slightly concerned. George really must have been out of it. "You alright?"

"Yeah I'm fine," George mumbles, looking down to play with his fingernails as he shrugs. He knows he really isn't the best of liars, doesn't think he has the energy to try.

"Seriously?" Jonny asks him then, incredulous. "Mate, we just beat fucking Ireland of all teams -like, literally smashed them- and you look as miserable as sin. What's going on?"

George looks to Ben for help, but the scrumhalf looks equally worried as he fixes him with a look as interrogatory as Jonny's questioning. He sighs, tips his head back with closed eyes.

"Is it about this girl?" Jonny asks, battering relentlessly through on his course and George has to grit his teeth even as he doesn't move an inch, doesn't stay a word.

"Mate," Ben warns Jonny off tentatively and wow, yeah, he really must be worried -never normally one to even try and come to his rescue.

"I know you said you don't want to talk about it or whatever, but it's clearly getting to you," Jonny still refuses to back down, but George doesn't think he can blame him as much as he doesn't want to hear it. If it were the other way round he likes to think he would be just the same. "Or is it about being on the bench or something? I get that it's a pretty rough deal."

"It's not that," George replies finally, still unmoving. His larynx aches a little from where his head is tipped back to such a severe angle and his voice comes out strained, but he doesn't want to open his eyes. Maybe he's just hiding from the scene playing out in front of him -he doesn't think he cares, suddenly so overtaken with the urge to say something he didn't think he could, to put all this to bed. "Okay, maybe it is a bit that, but-"

No. He can't.

"But?" Jonny latches on immediately and George thinks he may have backed himself into an inescapable corner. Perhaps it doesn't matter anymore whether he thinks he can or he can't, perhaps he doesn't have a choice anymore. Perhaps that's for the best. "What has this girl done to you, mate? She's got you acting proper weird all of a sudden."

George tips his head up, eyes fluttering open. Hazed, blinking, he checks around them. There doesn't seem to be anyone in earshot. Even if there was, part of him dares to wonder how much it would matter.

"He," George says before he can think. It comes out so croaky and quiet that he wouldn't be sure it had been audible if it hadn't been for the small quirk of Ben's lips he catches in his peripherals. "He, Jon. He's a guy -I like a guy. I'm gay."

Ben is really grinning now, but George can only bite his lip, stare as Jonny furrows his eyebrows, as his head cocks to the side.

"Oh," he says eventually and George feels like his gut is seizing up into the tightest of rubber band balls. Jonny shrugs. "Sorry mate. I mean, _he's_ got you acting proper weird all of a sudden."

The laugh bursts from George's lips before he can even think to try and stop it, a short sharp snort followed quickly by an onset of uncontrollable giggles. The correction was so simple, and Jonny still looks so seriously worried, and _God_ George loves his friend, suddenly disparaging himself for ever thinking there would be anything to worry about.

"What?" Jonny asks, smiling in confusion as his serious expression begins to fade amidst the laughter. "You were kidding?"

George shakes his head vehemently, body still racked with laughter. Ben is laughing aloud now as well, cheeks reddening as he beams and George stretches out his arms until both of them fall against him for the most awkwardly perfect hug he's ever had.

Over his friend's shoulders he can still see Owen, see his eyes sidled towards them even as he continues in his conversation.

George closes his eyes again, an ache still throbbing in his chest even as his heart bursts with pride.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this is so late! I know I promised a normal schedule way back at the beginning of July and it's now almost the end of the month with no updates, I just got very busy very unexpectedly! I will try my best from now on!
> 
> I guess another part of my excuse is that I was over in Northern Ireland last weekend for my annual trip to watch The Open Championship which was mostly great, although I now understand why so many people think golf is so boring. Dullest fourth round ever! 
> 
> Anyway, sorry again for the lateness and I hope you enjoyed, even if I must admit this chapter was kind of sad to write. It was partly inspired by a quote from my dad during this game when George was finally subbed on and a camera panned to him, something along the lines of "you've missed out on it all haven't you, Fordy" -which honestly made my eyes sting. Hopefully you fared better than I did!


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have only proofread chunks of this chapter in my haste to get it posted before I become too busy, so please forgive any mistakes -hopefully I'll remember to come back and make corrections at a later date. Enjoy!

Monday morning the marks the official start to training at Pennyhill Park. After landing on Sunday they'd been afforded the rest of the day off to recuperate and George is buzzing with a tightly wound energy, the novelty of hauling up on one of the sofas to watch telly and review footage having worn off quickly after only the sparest couple of minutes of game time. Even though that's all he's repeating now, sinking down into one of the communal seats in the lounge, just the knowledge of the intensity the day will bring is enough to allow a release.

Still, ever antisocial, George buries himself with in phone, mindfully navigating his way around the new schedule Eddie had forwarded to him. It's packed full, busier than George has ever been during any tournament, including the gruellingly fast turnarounds of junior championships. The title at the top of the PDF draws his eye yet again, like a child constantly distracted by a gold star on their work.

He's not sure how well the description fits him, so starkly official. Any shot at international captaincy or co-captaincy he's had up until now has been a one off, unimportant or experimental matches. Reading over the words 'vice captain' over and over still isn't enough for it to sink it, although he can feel the earliest hints of a smile beginning to spread over his lips. Quickly, George shuts off the phone before it can get out of hand.

Instead he nudges himself closer against Jonny, his friend tucked in next to him despite the endless choice of other free spaces around the room, an arm slung seemingly casually over the back of the sofa behind George. Quite how innocent it is, though, he's not so sure. The gesture, although not unusual, is uncommon enough that after his recent revelation is seems -George doesn't know- protective?

It's a struggle not to roll his eyes at that thought, having to distract himself by peering nosily over Jonny's shoulder at the display on his own phone screen. That really does make him roll his eyes.

"You don't have to do that, you know?" George tells him firmly, tone hushed enough to avoid drawing attention despite the otherwise totally empty lounge.

Jonny startles slightly at the sudden interruption. "Do what?" He asks and looks to George questioningly who merely nods towards the Attitude article open on the screen.

"Read about-" George pauses and peers closer at the title text and almost bursts out laughing. "'-Gays on TV'. I don't even read this stuff, you definitely don't have to."

Honestly, George can't help feeling a little touched at the sentiment even if it is a tad misplaced. The last thing he wants is for anything to change.

"I was just-" Jonny shrugs around the mumble. "Taking an interest."

"You seriously don't have to," George pats Jonny's knee gently, trying his best not to allow his anxiety to perpetuate into agitation. He can see what his friend is trying to do, can appreciate it to an extent, but -no, it's not what he wants. Jonny  has never read 'straight' articles for him before, that shouldn't be different now. "Go back to reading your conspiracy theory shit or something -I'm sure it's far more interesting."

"Alright," Jonny mutters, closing down the tab.

The evident disheartenment has George's toes clenching in his trainers, socks slipping down at his heel, guilt complex churning. There's no need for him to justify himself, no need to explain if something makes him uncomfortable. And God, if that doesn't sound exactly like something Owen would say.

"Thanks, though, mate," he pinches Jonny's knee to draw his attention back. He can't help it, not in the wake of such pure intention. "I appreciate the gesture, it's just-" he pulls his hand away, suddenly worried the touch is too far prolonged, unwarranted. "I'd rather you just ask me if there's anything you want to know."

Jonny is staring at where George's hand had just been, brow pinched, and George is already about halfway through a million internal self-reproaches when Jonny  retracts the arm from behind him reaches out to his lap, takes the hand he had so abruptly snatched away into his own grasp.

"Okay then," Jonny says, shoving his phone into his pocket and shifts until he's facing George fully, one leg bending beneath himself. "I want to know if you're suddenly scared to touch me because you think I wouldn't want a gay guy's hand on me or because you think your boyfriend will be jealous if he finds out?"

George flushes instantly at both accusations, looking down bashfully to where their hands are joined. There's no point debunking himself further for thinking that of Jonny, the reaction reflexive after so many years hiding himself away through fear of being on the receiving end of bigotry. And -he doesn't exactly know what Owen would be jealous of at this point, or if he would be at all. He shakes himself at that thought, it wouldn't be a particularly wise or accurate aspersion to cast Owen as his boyfriend at this point -George doesn't think he could be further from it.

"I don't have a boyfriend," George mumbles, more to himself than anything, suddenly longing to pull his phone back out and torture himself checking some text or snapchat message he knows won't have been replied to.

"Right," Jonny replies, although he doesn't push further, doesn't enquire deeper as to whether George thought he'd be uncomfortable having him touch him. Perhaps he gets it, although George isn't sure that's entirely possible. Simply, he squeezes George's fingers once more before releasing him and flopping down to lie across the rest of the sofa, utterly unfazed.  

George yearns for the touch as soon as it's gone. It isn't his and Jonny's friendship at all, something that had been so built on taking the piss that any tenderness now is completely alien; something that makes it scarily evident how desperate George is steadily becoming.

The low vibration in his pocket grounds him back into reality and one brief check shows him the reminder of the meeting he had known it would be even as an ounce of nervous hopefulness had hoped otherwise, hoped for more. He stands, patting Jonny's shoulder on his way past and makes his way towards Eddie's office.

Owen is already waiting outside as he gets there, perched on one of the uncomfortable plastic chairs arranged in a row outside. George wonders if it's strategic, every trip to Eddie's office feeling like a visit to the head teacher. His attention is buried in his phone, but he seems to notice George's approach, even stands as he reaches him.

"Alright?" George asks lowly, probably failing to cover the quiver in his voice as Owen flashes him a vague smile, a curt nod following in reply. One arm stretches out towards George and he allows himself to go easily as Owen tugs him against his side. The touch is gone in quicker a moment than it had come, however, as Owen pulls away to lead the way through into the office.

As is fully expected by this point, the first thing George is told is that he's on the bench, although Eddie does justify that -circumstances providing- he wants him on for longer, wants the two of them on together, wants to see how their leaderships combine. George isn't sure whether that's a reassurance or a threat. More game time in exchange for closer scrutiny on his and Owen's partnership, the true test as to whether George really is the best choice for his new position. Just days earlier and that wouldn't have worried him, would have elated him. Now, he's nervous.

After a quick run through of the week ahead, something George has already familiarised himself with in far more detail than was likely necessary, and a brief discussion of the twenty-three Eddie is currently planning to select for match day, they're dismissed for training.

The kicking practice is arranged for just the two of them, strict instruction from Eddie that they coach and learn from each other while the staff work with the rest of the team. George can't help gnawing on his lip as they make their way silently out to the field, suddenly such importance placed on a bond he can't quite place the bounds of anymore. The soft touch of a hand grazes George's lower back as Owen ushers him out of the hotel doors ahead of himself. He tries not to shiver.

Practice itself, however, is more of a relief than the worrisome endurance he had feared it would be. The ache for relief from a ball at his feet had reached a severity that George hadn't quite realised and upon his first shot at goal, even as it sails wide of the posts, he begins to settle.

They don't speak much, giving only small praise for worthy hits and adroit advice at any few near misses. Despite the equanimous professionalism, however, the session feels eerily similar to the endless hours they'd spent doing the exact same thing as youngsters with little more to discuss than the game they first bonded over. All that's missing is the tube of Parma Violets or Love Hearts nestled into Owen's pocket coming out to be shared every few minutes. George almost laughs at how ironically inapt the latter would have been at the time, at how apt they _ought_ to be now.

"I feel like it's still pulling a bit to the right," Owen complains even as he strikes the ball what appears to be dead centre over the crossbar. George cocks his head to the side, mimicking Owen's own short post-routine as he stares down the line the ball had just taken. Owen is still hopping minutely, his right foot lowered all the way back down to rest on top of the left as it bares the full brunt of his weight, bouncing.

"Looked good to me," George shrugs. There's a lot he wants to say, but about the kick itself there's not much more than that. "Maybe try adjusting your angle a bit?"

"Yeah," Owen answers plainly, but reaches down to pick up the tee instead of simply readjusting it. "We should probably think about heading in, I'm starving."

It's only then that George realises that the pitches around them have emptied, a quick glance at his watch telling him that it's long past the start of lunchtime. He's surprised no one came to get them, although it's definitely not the first time they've done this, absorbed themselves in their own world.

Leaving the balls scattered as they are to be picked up later, lazily readying themselves to be scolded, they head inside and straight up towards the bedrooms to shower and change for a more administrative afternoon.

Halfway towards his room, George clocks that Owen is still sauntering quietly beside him when he needn't be, his own bedroom miles in the other direction. He tightens one of his fists into a tight ball, nails that need trimming digging into the sensitive skin covering his palm. Owen is all but walking him home, barely having said two words to him in days that haven't been about a rugby ball in some way or another and he's _walking him home_?

Reaching George's door, Owen merely looks down to his feet, scuffing the toe of his left shoe agonisingly back and forth against the thinning carpet, making no move to leave. George has to cough, not trusting his voice even before he's spoken.

"Did you want to come in?" He asks tentatively, opening his shoulder up slightly from their natural hunch, ensuring his invitation seems genuine. Owen looks up at him, eyes boldly focussed even as his hands shove shyly into his pockets. "I was gonna have a quick shower if you fancy a chat?"

"I-" George holds his breath as Owen stutters. He shouldn't be this nervous, it shouldn't matter if Owen says yes or no, he should be able to freely assume he would want to, shouldn't feel offended if he can't.

"I can't," Owen tells him begrudgingly with a deflation in his shoulder and George feels himself mirroring the slump. "I promised Gabe I'd call him; I don't know if I'll get another chance today."

George just nods, ready to turn and let himself into the room, just trying to find the strength to muster some kind of goodbye. Owen bites his lip and it would look so _damn_ tempting if it wasn't so blatantly apologetic, if George wasn't in such tumult.

Slowly Owen leans forward and George feels arms wrap around his torso, tightly, properly. As the embrace holds, George allows himself to retaliate, bringing his own arms up to squeeze over Owen's biceps, his hands flat and firm against his shoulder blades.

"I'm sorry," Owen whispers against his temple after a moment of silence. His lips close in a soft, prolonged kiss over the shell of George's ear, the sound of it just as telling as the gentle feeling that draws a shudder up his spine. George can only nod, forehead bumping Owen's shoulder. He can't bring himself to say that it's okay because he's not so sure that it is, not even so sure what _it_ is, what he's supposed to be forgiving.

Cold air hits him in a rush as Owen pulls back and George can't bring himself to watch him walk away. He lets his head lull back into the door until he hears the thud of the wood, feels it radiate through his skull. _What_ is going on?

~~~~~

After training on Wednesday, George is rushed off by several members of the PR team and bundled into an empty gym room. Several cameras and microphones are set up in front of a couple of chairs and technicians are floundering haplessly about the equipment. George takes the seat he's lead to with a lethargic obedience, greeting Vernon as politely as he can mange, letting himself relax momentarily under the soft feel of the makeup brushes suddenly attacking his face.

George had known about the podcast for days in advance, although it had been a small section of his schedule that he had firmly avoided paying thought to. While he doesn't think he's particularly bad at this promotional malarkey, he's certainly no Marler or Haskell and part of him thinks that if either of those guys were here then less charismatic players such as himself might escape such arduous duties.

As it is, though, he sits patiently, smile plastered acquiescently across his face as the cameras start rolling and Vernon begins his well rehearsed regurgitation of scripted questions. George answers as fully and eloquently as he can even as his eyes start to feel heavy, the intense conditioning of the morning beginning to catch up with him.

"Talk about Owen as well," George really tunes in when he hears that, his attention coming too full and embarrassingly quickly at the sound of the name. "As a neighbour. Do you remember the first you ever met him?"

It's a question that used to come up frequently for both of them, way back when they were just youngsters first starting to come up through the squad. George hadn't been aware quite how much attention their axis had drawn until he'd started interviewing and promoting for the senior team. Now, he can't quite remember the last time such a question came up.

But it doesn't take a second for George to remember.

"I think one of the first experiences was walking to school together," George shakes his head, can feel as his smile begins to turn fond. "And I didn't have a clue where I was going and what was going on. We've gone from being at school up north in normal uniforms to wearing a tweed jacket at St George's and we're like 'what's going on here?'"

George knows he's rambling, isn't quite sure what exactly he's trying to say -he's just _remembering_. He doesn't want to think anymore about what's going outside this room, about what the is going on inside Owen's head and why things are suddenly so strange. No, he just lets himself enjoy thinking, talking, about a time when things were so much simpler.

"We're still really good mates," George isn't so sure that that's true, isn't so sure what they are now. "But when you're walking to school together eating a bag of wine gums, or whatever it is, it's a bit different to preparing for a test match."

It feels accurate, feels apt. Things are so different now, things have changed a lot over the years, immeasurably so over just the last few months. And George had been so sure that it had been a change in a direction he wanted, finally going in a way they should have. Now he just _doesn't know._

The podcast seems to wrap up pretty quickly from there, questions returning to the same predictable mundanity he's grown used to.

Before George knows what's what he's already sat through yet another dinner, half rowdy, half subdued by shared exhaustion, and is slumped into his familiar seat in a busier than normal players lounge. It's loud, obtrusively loud, and George feels himself curling instinctively into Ben's side in some sort of vain attempt to escape the noise. Jonny's arm has found its new favourite position behind George's shoulders yet again.

They must look particularly antisocial in their tiny huddle, the rest of the clubs have split and integrated. Dan, Manu and even Ellis have already moved on, but George can't bring himself to want to. This is familiar, it's easy.

"You okay?" Ben asks, even subtlety now needing almost a shout just to be heard about the bustle. George feels a poke against his hip where Ben briefly wraps his arm and George has to squeeze his eyes shut to keep from rolling them. This isn't like Ben either. Both of them are being too different with him and it's too much yet not enough all at the same time.

"Yeah," George answers, sitting up away from Ben's hold, only to find himself sinking deeper underneath Jonny's armpit; he's completely trapped between them.  

He pulls his phone out before any interrogation can continue, opens his email at the sight of a notification. It from one of the PR editors, an attached video showing the finalised product of the podcast from earlier with a short note informing him that they will be uploading it in a few minutes. The message having been sent over an hour earlier, George doesn't bother reviewing the footage, doesn't think he really cares what they kept and what was omitted.

"How was your PR thing earlier," Jonny asks and George can tell he's trying to sound casual where he's blatantly been staring at the phone from over his shoulder.

"Was alright," George replies mutely, choosing this time not to scold him for his nosiness. He'd never willingly admit that he's just as bad himself and honestly he doesn't think he can be bothered. "Pretty boring, as usual."

"That's just because you're boring," Ben tells him making George frown. Here they go again. "You never let yourself have a laugh with that stuff."

And George isn't in the mood for this, isn't in the mood to be picked on, isn't in the mood to battle back. He thought this would be an easy escape, but he's penned in and he's _tired._ God, he hadn't really realised it, but he's utterly exhausted.

"Whatever," George mumbles, looking down to where his fingers are fiddling aimlessly in his lap when he realises both of them are awaiting his reply, desperate for a retaliation he just isn't inclined to provide.

The air turns a bit stiff at that and George knows that his friends share some sort of look over his shoulder before turning their attention to their phones, quietly leaving him be. Part of George feels as though he ought to feel bad, should regret his apparently insufferable attitude, but even though he can tell he's making them worry, his usual complicated relationship with guilt just doesn't seem to be kicking in. Perhaps somehow he can sense that it's not really concern, that it's nothing more than a crescendoing aggravation as they're forced to put up with him day after day. Or maybe he just can't bring himself to care.

George's head throbs and he has to close his eyes to contend the sudden aching pain.

When he blinks them back open, he refocuses further off, away from the close proximity and darkness of his lap and towards the unstrained lighting of the lamps.

There's a small cluster of interspersed Saracens players on the sofa just across from him. Of course there is, George thinks bitterly, despite their hit with injuries last week they still seem to be everywhere. He wants to berate the unexpected bout of his own petty sourness -he doesn't. Ellis is sat on the floor, seemingly chattering amicably away with Jamie while Elliot fiddles absently with the hooker's shirt.

Cocking his aching head to the side, George forces himself to contemplate exactly _why_ all he wants to do is pull the young prop away. Away from the poisonous spouting of a player from _that_ club, a club that wins off cheated laws and technicalities. Away from a bond forming for the shy newbie and back into the safe haven of their little Leicester bubble; their failing Leicester bubble.

This twisted irrationality isn't like him, he shouldn't want that, doesn't want it, although he's not sure he can bring himself to blame the potential cause nestled into the end of the sofa.

Owen is staring down at the screen of his own phone, his legs crumpled up beneath him where he's forcing himself fully into the armrest. The way he's set himself is far enough from his closest group to be deemed antisocial, although George thinks that he is hardly one to judge him. There's a frown creasing ever deeper into Owen's brow as his attention hones in closer to whatever is displayed on the screen. The clenching fist of his hand in the fabric of his shorts would make him look angry, anyone else paying him enough mind would likely make that assumption, but George isn't so sure.

There's a heaviness to his eyes that just make him look _sad._

Suddenly, he stands and George nearly jumps at the abruptness no matter how far from him it is. Owen waves Jamie off as the hooker apparently questions the action and shoves his phone down into his pocket, retreating from the group with an intentional briskness. George is more than mightily confused at this point, no, now he's worried.

The approach is so quick and he knows he has to react, Owen about to make his way past with such relentless speed that George is flinging himself forward, reaching out before he can think. He just wants to know, wants to help.

"Alright?" Is the only word he can manage to find, loud enough to be heard above the conspicuous noise in the room. Where he'd been reaching out, just to draw Owen's attention, to slow him, their fingers graze. Owen stops.

The touch lingers for a moment as Owen turns his hand over against George's, friction between them where the pads of their fingers don't disconnect with the movement. But just as George is about to clasp his own into a hold, utterly unthinking towards their surrounds, Owen retracts.

Hand pulling fully out of George's reach, Owen starts on his path again with no reply to George's earlier question other than the faintest grumble, barely audible in the overcrowded space. Gone and out the door in seconds, George slumps back, falling in heavily beneath Jonny's arm.

"What's up with him?" Ben asks, sounding about as confused as George is really beginning to feel. A concerned bafflement that is smarting like an itch he can't scratch.

George just shrugs, his shoulders heaving under the weight of Jonny's hold which is now resting fully against him.

"Is he mad at you or something?" Ben follows up and George is really starting to resent his friends' inability to ever let anything go.

"I dunno," George huffs defensively, although he's quiet enough that he's not sure either of them could hear him.

"He's probably just stressed," Jonny offers offhandedly. He still has his nose in his own phone and George isn't sure how much attention he really paid in the first place. At least it may serve to get Ben off the case, to leave it be -George jumps on.

"Probably," he agrees readily even if he can't quite stave the gruffness from his voice. Part of him thinks maybe he should go after Owen, ask him to come out with what's bothering him. Part of him thinks maybe that's not the best idea, maybe he doesn't really want to know.

"Yeah maybe," Ben goes on and George has to grit his teeth, longing for a return to the solitude they had previously afforded him. "Or maybe he is a bit pissed at you -y'know, worried you're a threat to his position or whatever."

And wait-

"What you on about?" George stares at him dumbly, although his mind is whizzing over consideration for the aspersion. It can't be possible, though, can it? George is on the bench, pretty damn firmly on the bench -the last thing he could be considered is a threat to Owen's position. Even when he's brought on Owen is only shifted a couple of paces out to the right.

"Well you know what he's like -he hates missing out on any minute of a match," Ben explains. He's not wrong, but it doesn't change the numbers on the backs of their shirts. "All of a sudden your his vice captain, captain yourself for the Japan game -maybe he's worried what Eddie has planned for the World Cup."

It should sound outlandish listening to Ben cast such a perspective on things. They've always had a friendship through a rivalry, they're good at it, they've always made it work. And a vice is no threat to a captain. Then again, George isn't so sure he can call what they have now _just_ a friendship, doesn't want to at least -he'd been so sure that things had just about finally started to blossom into something more than that. Maybe that's too much to survive a rivalry. And maybe Owen does see a vice as a threat -that's what he had been to Dylan and now the hooker is nowhere to be seen.

Maybe this is Owen casting him off, too poor with words to finds the ones to let him down gently. It's too much to think of. Suddenly it feels a hundred times more brutal.

"Maybe," George croaks and if his voice doesn't sound _wrecked_. The howling of the squad seems to cover it well enough, but George doesn't think he can trust himself to stay.

He doesn't think his club mates hear him as he excuses himself to his room, not that they'd find him there if they looked. There's somewhere else he has to go first, an answer he has to know _._

Courteous knocks aside, George positively pounds on the door once he reaches it. If the look on Owen's face earlier had been anything to go by, anything else would have been ignored and George is not prepared to face failure now he's asserted his task.

A rather dishevelled looking, pyjama clad Owen pulls the door open after only a few prolonged seconds of the uncensored banging, utterly bewildered as he stares confusedly at what must now be George's completely red face. The dull throb in his head is now an agony, but George has no intentions with peace or quiet.

"Georgie, what-?"

"Have I done something wrong?" George bursts, unable to hold back a second longer. "Are you mad at me or something because I really don't know what I'm supposed to have done."

"I'm not-" Owen doesn't finish as George pushes past him into the room, all too aware of the publicity his ever rising voice could cause in the open hallway.

"You're being weird, Owen,  you have been for days now. And don't say you haven't because you know-" George forces himself to stop as his voice breaks free, the stabbing in his head becoming all too much as he is forced to squeeze the bridge of his nose in an attempt to subdue it.

This kind of confrontation isn't something George finds easy, it doesn't come naturally and this is all way too brash and spontaneous, but the path is laid out too far in front of him now. Breathing in deeply, he tries again, calmly. "If I've pissed you off or something you can tell me, I'd _rather_ you tell me. I don't want you to start pulling away from me."

"'m not trying to pull away from you," Owen mutters lowly in response, but as he chews on a fingernail he catches himself in some kind of turmoil, unsure of himself. "At least I don't mean -I don't think- I don't know, Georgie!"

"Well I don't know either Owen!" George feels a heat rise up in his throat as the words come out raised and agitated. He didn't come into this knowing what he wanted to hear, but he doesn't think this is it -doesn't think it's enough. "Because one minute you're refusing to talk to me, or telling me you don't have time to talk to me and the next you're giving me a kiss and cuddle and making me _feel_ all these things. And now-"

George pants as he cuts himself off, refusing to let himself shout. There are too many people who could hear this, there is too much George would never want anyone to hear.

"Are you mad because of the vice captaincy?" George tries again quietly, the laces on his shoes suddenly looking like the most interesting thing he's ever seen.

"What? No!" Owen defends, his own fire starting to crackle at the notion. "Why would you-?"

"Because Ben thinks... well, if you are that's not -there's nothing I can do-" George can feel a familiar sharp prickle beginning to sting behind his eyes. It's really the last thing he needs, although there really doesn't feel as though there's any way he could stop it no matter how hard he may battle. This all means too much. And his biggest fears are out there for Owen to see and do with as he pleases and it's all George can do not to turn and run.

"I promise it's not that," George sees Owen's bare feet appear in his diverted line of vision before he could sense that a step had been made, feels Owen take one of his hands in his own. "It's not that, Georgie."

But it's not enough. As much as George wants to believe him, as much of a relief that is heaving through him, it's not an explanation, not an alternative.

"Then what is it Owen?" George insists, forcing himself to look up, to look Owen dead in the eye as he pulls his hand away. "I don't want you to just stand here and call me that name and hold my hand like nothing is going on -I want you to talk to me, tell me."

A shroud falls over Owen's face then, an enragement, agitation. George sinks his teeth into his lower lip at the sight of it. None of this is boding well, all of it is ripping his heart right out of his chest.

"But that's just it, isn't it, George? Nothing is going on," Owen laughs bitterly as he says it, anger etched into his features. George swears he can still see the sadness around the fringes, swears it isn't some vain trail of wishful thinking. "Not according to you at least."

"What?" George can't help but feel stumped at that. Desperately he wracks his brain to try and find something, any kind of semblance of what Owen could be getting at -but there's nothing.

"Isn't that what you told Jonny? 'Drop it -it's nothing'?" Owen spits and God, George can't even remember saying it, but the pure hatred he feels for himself at the notion that he could have, that Owen could have ever had to hear it, is pain more intense than the sheer pounding in his head.

"I don't-"

But Owen isn't finished, cuts through any attempted response remorselessly. "And then you go and tell the world that we're, what was it, 'really good mates'? Oh but it's not as good as when we were kids because apparently so damn much has changed!"

And that -that isn't fair and from the look on his face Owen seems to know it's not fair. Yet all he does is breathe heavily as he comes down from the outburst, eyes glossy as they stare into George's own. It's enough to make the damn burst, the first drops of water trickling over the edge.

"What was I supposed to say, then?" George chokes, hating the way he can't compose himself with an equal lack of caring. "Was I supposed to say that you're, what, my boyfriend? 'My more than just mate?'"

There's still a nagging part of him that wonders if he's got this all wrong, if he's had it wrong all along. It should be ridiculous at this point to think that there is nothing there, there has to be _something_ there -Owen practically just admitted that he doesn't see this as just nothing. But still it nags on, gnaws away in the very pit of George's gut like a parasite feeding off his insecurity.

"Isn't that what I am?" Owen asks plainly, but his voice crackles, the glazing of his eyes finally forming pools of their own in the corners.

Still no confirmation. All George _needs_ is a confirmation. Firm, assured. Everything none of this has ever been.

"Just tell me," George pleads, his chest constricting around a tight sob. He can't do this anymore. Owen is just staring at him, staring at the quiver in his lips and George can't hold it back any longer. "Please just tell me. You know I have feelings for you, you know I want to be with you -just please-"

And then there are lips. There are warm, tear wet lips. And they're pressing against George's own, so soft and salty even as they inflict their assault on his mouth -eager, visceral. The movement on his skin can't elicit him to move, can't draw his jaw apart. Simply, he brings his hands up, feeling until they find a solid purchase on the broad sheet of muscle in front of him. Unthinkingly, he pushes.

Owen steps back, and with it the feeling goes and a pang of yearning hits George so hard he thinks he could cry out in pain. All they do is stare, just for a second, breathing so hard just to draw in oxygen, the air around them feeling so thin. The pain is agonising and George can't stand it another second.

Lurching himself forward, arms winding around wide shoulders, George presses his lips back to Owen's; hungrily, his mouth flounders, tongue lapping against dampened chap. There are hands on his hips, sliding to his waist just as the heat of a tongue slips unhindered into his mouth. Teasingly, George allows his own to glide along the pane of it, to taste the soft embers of burnt coffee beans remaining there.

Beneath him, his legs feel weak, but there's a support now like there's never been, holding him steady, lifting him slightly. George knows he's far too heavy, but goes with the move readily, allows his feet to be held just centimetres off the ground until he's tumbling, poised weight ever above him until they're both caught securely by the cushioned safety of the mattress.

Already, the burdened pressure of Owen feels perfect, the smooth glissade of their lips together a necessity, the feel of fingers at his waistband a thrill of bated anticipation. George brings his own hands to the hem neatly finishing Owen's t-shirt, somehow despising the object for its obstruction.

Something in the back of his mind tells him it can be fixed with a tug. Something else hones in on the assured path of Owen's hand beneath the constriction of his shorts. Something else has the sense to thank any and every deity that Dylan is away injured, that no one is here to break their delicate chimera.

Those are the last thoughts he's able to think for a while.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Surprise? I think that's all I'll say to that.


	16. Chapter 16

From the mist of a shallow, dreamless sleep George feels himself being tugged free. Outside there is dim lighting now cascading in through the window where the curtains are strewn wide open; nothing compared to the harsh closeness of even the most lustreless lamp. George feels his eyes flutter in their attempts to open, squinting, eyelashes flitting against the firm, warm cushioning supporting his cheek, his head.

Blearily, he twists nearer, pushing himself more fully into the presence to relieve the angle of his neck until he feels his body press flush against the plane of another. Beneath him, there is a soft rocking, the high rise and deep fall of a steady breathing. Slowly, the cogs in George's brain begin to turn, registering his surroundings -where he is, who he's with.

Something moves on his tailbone, a light tickling touch against his bare flesh, gliding steadily upwards across the span of his back until it is free from the duvet encasing him at the shoulders. The hand asserts itself more firmly as it extends over his neck, strong fingers compressing the tension in cricked muscles, until it settles softly against George's head. There it sits, petting gently as it twists and fiddles with tousled hair.

George feels himself start to smile, lips quirking upwards as he comes to more completely -he knows exactly where he is, exactly who he's with.

With a stretch, quiet moan tumbling from his lips before he can quite manage to catch it, George forces his eyes wide against a light that upon a few blinks he realises isn't so inimical. Tentatively, he shifts once again, lower extremities protesting the move, a dull ache spreading all the way down from his core to his toes and congregating into something that could even be considered strain in his hamstrings and behind his knees. The smile widens -a perfect reminder.

One final blink and twinge fully rousing him, George turns his head upwards. Owen is looking right back down at him, smile returned amidst his smugly sated glory and George lets himself shyly wonder just how long he's been that way, how long he's been staring.

"Sorry," George mumbles, moving lethargically to relieve Owen's side and chest of the weight it is baring, although he keeps his head securely nestled in the cushioned strength of the bicep beneath him.

"'s alright," Owen assures, fingers still carding slowly despite the awkward bend in his arm. Closing his eyes again, only briefly, George presses into the touch.

"How long was I out?" The question is fashioned as though George has any semblance of time, as though his entire world isn't totally enraptured into this one moment, this one place.

Over George's shoulder Owen casts a glance as to what is presumably some kind of clock. George doesn't have the energy to look for himself, doesn't want to ignore this view for even the shortest second.

"About an hour," Owen answers and George merely nods as the hand falls from his hair, slipping back beneath the covers to find its previous position hanging low enough on his back for fingers to tease at the dip of his coccyx.

Turning onto his side, Owen slides his other hand across between them until it finds a purchase only inches above the first. Grip established, George feels himself being tugged forwards, the pull so intent that the move requires no effort on his part, until their chests align together, skin chafing, noses bumping.

An arm crushed under his own weight, George scrabbles with the other to find a hold of his own. Lithely it slips beneath Owen's arm until a hand can plaster to his back, pulling forward with as much might as his tired state can muster.

Owen leans forward in response, tugging George in impossibly closer as he does until their lips brush together ever so gently. It's a stark contrast to the ferocious intensity around which their night has mostly centred, Owen tongue dancing timidly over George's lips as though he wouldn't have mercilessly inserted himself without question a mere hour ago. George lets his jaw slacken, allows Owen the access he's so shyly requesting.

It takes another second for George to quite register what is happening as it does, fatigued mind still struggling to catch up as Owen kisses him deeply, as his hand slips lower to find a firm squeeze of abused, sensitive flesh. The smile ever-present on George's face spreads uncontrollably into a grin as he nudges himself closer still, returns the kiss with as much impassioned vigour as is possible around his now giggling smile. This is really Owen, it's really happening, they're really _kissing_.

God he feels like an awestruck teen, nothing like the seasoned adult who only just partook in far more than just a kiss.

"What's so funny?" Owen smiles down at him around a light, huffing laugh of his own when George's beaming becomes too hard to kiss around. Relinquishing his hold only slightly, Owen smoothes his palm back up over George's skin, pausing only when he finds a more appropriate surface at his hipbone.

George can only shake his head, smiling wider still. "Nothing," he tells him, composure cracking almost instantly as a new wave of realisation hits him at full force, a flush bubbling into a soft pink on the skin of his chest and creeping slowly up towards his neck. He's here with _Owen._ George has to sway himself forward, ducks his head until it buries in the solidity of Owen's pectoral before the blush can reach his cheeks.

The soft rumble of laughter that follows oscillates wildly against George's forehead where he presses deeper still, turns his face to the side as he finds a quiet comfort in the indistinct noises to the side of his ear. Lulled and contented, George lets the pull of sleep begin to take him once more, wrestling the duvet further up over his shoulder and entrapped in the embrace of a warm body he feels safe against the dying winter outside.

"George?" The gruff sound of his name isn't enough to quite drag him free, his new haven far too tranquil to allow anything more than a passive hum of recognition in return. On his hip, the fingers squeeze a farewell to their hold, sliding back round to his back to lie flat in the dipped curve of his spine. In the wake of their path, George feels his skin tingle. "I'm really sorry."

That's enough to rouse him, confusion seeping too deeply into the serenity of his satisfaction to jostle him from its grasp. Again, he tilts his head upwards, but finds Owen's gaze this time averted, the fingers on his back tapping nervously in place of the petting that had George relaxing so easily into the moment.

"Why?" He asks delicately, hands drawing up to Owen's chest, his own fingertips painting thoughtless patterns there in an attempt to regain what he now realises is a required attention. Still, it doesn't return, Owen instead sinking his teeth into his lower lip, wriggling his neck until his face can't be seen where his chin hooks over George's head. George feels an all too familiar twist of anxiety deep in his abdomen as seconds drag on into long moments without reply, breathes harshly in an attempt for oxygen where he's held so tightly into Owen's body, battling with himself for patience.

"For tonight," Owen's shoulders heave as he tries to shrug, his nipple bumping with George's nose at the languid movement of exhausted muscles. If he wasn't held so tightly, so assuring, George would panic at the following pause, at the possible implications of words left hanging in an air so thick with space between them so thin. As it is, he steadies, sets himself still and silent as he waits for a coming continuation -there _has_ to be a continuation.

"For the last few days," Owen goes on and George huffs out the minimal breath he could manage right into his flesh, feeling the responding prickle of sensitive areola on the tip of his nose. "For being an idiot. I should've just told you how I feel in the first place -should've told you ages ago. I dunno-" he shrugs again and George drags his lips against the moving flesh this time, chafing a kiss in his wake.

"It's okay," George eases himself backwards as he speaks, whispered from the breathlessness of his tight confines until he finally manages to inhale a full gasp of air and resets to carry on. "I'm sorry, too. I really shouldn't have said that to Jonny, I didn't mean it like that I just wanted to get him off my case. And that stuff on the podcast-"

George stutters incoherently as he's cut off, Owen leaning the short distance forward to press their lips together. Chaste as it is, it's enough to blur his mind into silence.

"You don't need- I know why you told Jonny it was nothing, I know you just wanted him to shut up and believe me I really get that," they both laugh lightly at the blatant implication and suddenly George remembers the thing he's been dying to tell Owen for days, remembers that he finally has him here listening.

"I told him," George admits, sharing the news such a relief that he feels it like a physical drain of tension from his shoulders. "About me being -you know."

"Yeah?" Owen checks, smiling as George nods in return, a prideful glint shimmering across his features. "He good?"

"Yeah," George sighs. "He's been really great -even caught him reading some Attitude article."

Owen laughs lightly, obligingly, but his eyes are fixed and he swoops in once again. They kiss deeply this time, intake of breath short and sharp before Owen turns his head to the side, shifts his weight up onto his lower elbow. With the leverage George feels himself being rolled the short way onto his back and with the crushed arm from beside his torso now freed he lifts both to slide over Owen's traps, up the sides of his neck until they cradle his tireless jaw.

From behind George's back Owen's own hands slip free, gliding the faintest of tickling touches up the tort skin of his stretched sides, short nails scraping as they collide with the hard bones of his ribcage. The tight gasp George emits at the sensation is immediately absorbed into Owen's lips, his tongue lapping away the sound of subdued laughter as he pinches the delicate flesh between his thumb and fingers.

Winding his fingers through the short hair at the back of Owen's head, George tugs none so gently on the few strands he can gather into his grip. The sharpness of the action has Owen moaning freely against George's lips, his tense jaw slackening enough to allow a slip in his otherwise steadily controlled dominance. George can only grin, biting down friskily on Owen's lower lip where it teases his open mouth -enough to make him wince dutifully, playfully.

Even the small stab at his command is enough to have Owen growling, frivolously disgruntled, and digging his fingers into George's sides until he squirms, squeaks. He ducks his head down until George feels sharp teeth grazing against his jugular, lips closing around the juncture of his neck with a short, harsh suck. Arching into the feeling, his fingers drop free tousled hair, hands dropping to Owen's shoulders, unsure of whether to push him loose or hold him still, relish the sensation.

"Owen," he groans out, his intentions indecipherable to himself even as they holt their target. Owen somehow gathers a message that George wasn't quite sure he'd imparted as he presses a soft kiss to abused skin and drops his weight down to nestle his head into the very spot he had tortured.

A hand falls flat onto George's stomach, stroking its way downwards until it comes to rest low on his belly, pausing a second before it begins to rub small circles there. The new weight supported by his side is too heavy for comfort, but George daren't dream of moving. Simply, he drops his free arm loose to his side, tightens his hold around Owen's shoulder and torso where the other remains trapped.

Silence beats on for long moments before Owen speaks up once more.

"What you said," he pauses as he coughs nervously. George squeezes him a little tighter, drops a kiss to the crown of his head to encourage him on further, only fidgeting slightly in discomfort at the position. "What you said earlier -on the podcast-"

"I didn't mean to-" George cuts in, can't quite find the words for what he wants to convey. "It was just an on the spot thing."

"I know, I just meant -when I said... I didn't mean -I hope," Owen sighs, turning his head into George's collarbone as he cuts off his own rambling. The hand on George's abdomen pauses briefly, lifts until just fingertips are left tracing patterns aimlessly. "I hope that you did mean it, yeah? Like, I hope stuff is different now."

George considers the words carefully, considers every possible meaning Owen could mean to convey. Part of him wants to press for clarification, doesn't want to be left wondering if he's inferring vague implications correctly ever again. But the moment is so tender, things feels so fresh and delicately placed and the last thing George wants is to dislodge something that could cause a crack in foundations that haven't yet been fully formed.

"I- yeah," George tries to find the words to assert an answer, but without assured conviction from Owen there's little more he can do but agree. "I hope so too."

Under the deflation of further weight George shifts, the pressure against his lungs depleting his capacity for air. Owen lifts himself free at the movement beneath him and despite the relief George wants to cry out, desperate to bring back a presence he never wants to lose.

He hums his disapproval as a quiet whine, but Owen merely huffs a short laugh and sets himself more firmly onto his side which is now resting only against the mattress. With one hand still planted securely over George's belly, the other wriggles insistently beneath his back until he complies, rolling away so that Owen can haul him in close.

They stick together perfectly, a light sheen of sweat forming on back and chest alike from the furnace of shared heat burning beneath the sheets. Breath falls hot and heavy against the back of George's neck, but it's enough to make him shiver like a chill as Owen pushes a leg between his own, tangling their feet, drawing a delicious, reminiscent ache from the slight stretch in his parted thighs. There's a slight twitch of intrigue from Owen behind him, the pressure from the tight press of George's firm, bare flesh and it's enough to allow another flood of realisation through the barriers, to make him remember how real this is, no longer the product of wondering imagination.

One glance at the clock just ahead of him is another, enough to make the small contented smile growing over his lips falter.

"I shouldn't be here," George groans in the fragile silence, reality weighing in like several tons of bricks. Corridors away from his own room, no word of explanation to his roommate and the hour is well past midnight.

"Yes you should," Owen whispers decisively, plants a firm kiss to George's neck for good measure.

And, yeah, George isn't going to argue that, not as his eyes start to slip easily closed, as Owen holds onto him that little bit tighter. This is exactly where I should be.

~~~~~

Through sleep hazed eyes George can only just make out the numbers on the clock. There's no longer a dim lighting of the lamp or streetlights to aid him, the room now dark aside from the soft beam of red just peaking through the squint of his eyelashes. George shifts, grunts as he readies himself to fall right back into the blissful dream he'd been having. That is until it happens again.

A soft depression folds his neck forwards, the infliction assuring him of what had first roused his consciousness. Again, warm and wet it presses, the sound so hushed yet audible in the near silence. Behind him, something shifts, the movement alerting nerve ending down the entire breadth of George's body. Once more.

George can't help but smile as the fuzz in his mind begins to clear. Languidly, he stretches.

"'s three in the morning," he mutters, far too cheerful as he smiles in spite of the fact, voice sleepily slurred.

"I can't sleep," the words are mumbled against his skin, the back of his neck carefully petted by the lips that speak them. And again -then again. George can't contain the soft giggle that breaks loose, squirming from the tingle as the kisses continue.

"So you thought you'd wake me up, too?" George blinks himself into full wakefulness, his eyes adjusting to the dark of the room. The curtains are pulled shut now, the lamp switched off. Around his middle, arms tighten -George can just imagine Owen's frustration.

Instead of protesting the allegation, Owen merely hums his confession, wraps his lips over one of George's vertebrae, teeth and stubble rasping as he draws the blood to the surface with his tongue. George fusses disapprovingly feeling the same familiar throb at the front of his throat. Weakly, he bats at Owen's hands where they squeeze him -those won't be easy to cover.

Turning onto his back, George decreases the breadth of skin open to assault by fixing Owen with a look. All he gets is the cheeky flash of a smile, though, as Owen's lips take up residence on George's own -and he's hardly going to argue that. The soft ministrations are far too lulling, however, and George soon feels the familiar tug of sleep pulling him back into its grasp, the reciprocating movement in his jaw slowing to a near stop even as Owen pushes on further.

The scrape of canines brings him to, his eyes open perhaps a little too quickly as he feels something twinge in his forehead. George winces with a small hiss, almost absorbed by the soft kisses. Still, Owen pulls away, stares down at him apologetically as he brings gentle fingers to stroke at the dishevelled strands of George's fringe.

"You okay?" Owen whispers, hand moving round to cup the side of George's head, thumb rubbing at his temple. "Tired?"

Easing himself into the touch, preening under the delicate treatment to such sensitivity, George nods. "Got a proper headache earlier as well -think it's still a bit sore."

At that Owen's features downturn, a frown forming a pinch in his brow as light wrinkles of questioning concern crease into his forehead. "Because of-"

He doesn't need to finish, George knows what he's asking. Thoughtfully, he shrugs, unwilling to lie as his mind attempts to formulate the words to explain. Owen slumps heavily back down to his side, George turns to face him.

"I was worried about you," he tries, blinking against his fatigue as he winds an arm around Owen's waist, hand resting low on his back with his own thumb now taking a leading role in the imparting of comfort.

"Sorry," Owen grumbles, reaching to take George's forearm in his grip. "I, uh -I've been a prick these last few days."

Leaning the short distance forward, George presses their foreheads together, his thigh lifting to slip over the top of Owen's own, tugging him in. "Doesn't matter now, does it?" He says, lips dancing against Owen's at their proximity, closing momentarily most chastely. Owen's hold loosens from his lower arm as it slides steadily upwards, pausing only when it finds purchase at the side of George's neck.

Immersed in the purest of serenities, George allows his eyes to flutter closed once more, chasing yet again what now feels like the ultimate goal of sleep.

"G?" It's a real struggle not to groan, even at the whispered intrusion, even as George could never quite dare bring himself to complain at being roused in this way, by the tickle of words Owen's words breathed right into his mouth.

"Yeah?" he hums, eyes still clamped closed.

"I think-" Owen stumbles, pauses, presses a kiss into George's lips before he can set himself to continue. "I'm gonna talk to Eddie, tell him about Ashton and stuff -tell him I'm bi."

"You-" George thinks his eyes must fly comically wide, especially if the small, nervous grin he's greeted with is anything to go by. He feels himself jolt, arms tightening its hold, leg squeezing reassuringly, groins pressing firmly. "Really? I thought- but you said you didn't want that, the formality of it all."

"I know, but," Owen shrugs, lets his hand trail down to George's back. "Well, you said it would make you more comfortable, you know? And I know it would be good to have him on board, keeping an eye out."

"You don't have to do that for me," George tells him emphatically, fingers pinching accusingly around the flesh at Owen's lower back. No, the last thing he would want is for Owen to make himself uncomfortable just for George's gain, especially as he can offer nothing so brave in return.

"I know I don't," Owen promises, his own fingers pinching in return. "But I want to, yeah? For both of us. It's- I know it's the sensible thing to do, the right thing to do."

And if George hadn't known Owen had grown up times a million, he does now. This Owen, although still the hideously cocky kid George had first met, couldn't be further from the scared, confused teen he had soon grown to know him as. The scared, confused teen George so often feels himself still to be. This Owen is the man George wished he could find the strength to become.

The thought is enough to choke him up, the thought that Owen would do this for him -for _them_.

"Since when have you cared about what's sensible?" George huffs around his attempt to laugh, to lighten the suddenly dense air around him. He doesn't account for the lump that has formed so thickly in his throat, curses the way it makes him sound so pained.

"Oh, a little while now," Owen smiles, catching on even through George's pathetic attempts. "Someone made me see that sensible is important sometimes."

"Oh yeah," George coughs the lump clear, manages to return with a softening of his own features. "And who is this someone exactly?"

"No one special," Owen sets his hold to haul George impossibly closer as he smirks devilishly, their chests plastering together same as the rest of their bodies, the pressure a little lower building to a level enough to make George squeak.

"Bastard," George chastises weakly around a forming grin of his own, revelling in the bubble of laughter resounding in Owen's chest at the insult.

He doesn't know who swoops in first, the distance between them small enough that it could just as easily have been an accident, but somehow they end up entangled once again. They kiss themselves into exhaustion, teasing battles fought amongst them until neither can find the energy any longer.

George daren't look at the time again, instead choosing to obscure his vision in the warm comfort of Owen's chest, his skin providing the perfect blockade from any imposing concept of time or reality. Vaguely he remembers again the roommate he will surely have to explain his absence to, distantly he plays mind to the faint prickles of ownership that disturb unflawed complexion.

None of that really feels like it matters right now as he presses one final sign of affection into Owen's skin.

"Sleep now?" He asks forlornly, fatigue catching up with him at full pelt.

Against the crown of his head, George feels something nuzzle into his hair, hears words whispered there as he dozes off.

"Sleep now."

~~~~~

In the morning, George wakes just in time for an alarm that never sounds. Somewhere, amidst the kicks shoes and haphazardly thrown clothes strewn around the room, he's sure his phone will be lying dead to the world. Never before did he think a body clock could be so handy.

Beating steadily beneath his head, Owen's chest rises and falls evenly, the puffs of air sounding from above him indicative of his unconscious state. Next to him, George's fingers press in ever so lightly, watching as the flesh underneath whitens at the pressure, the heartbeat pounding ceaselessly strong enough to pulse beneath his touch.

For long moments, George simply lays still, his only movements in small flickers at the tips of his fingers. Silently, he watches closely the small twitches and tics of the body he's beside, the tiny disturbances that are unable to bring him round. Unable to help himself, George smiles, turns his head ever so carefully, slow and somnolent as his drags his lips across the strong plane of muscles, exposed and open to his whim.

Behind thin curtains there is the dimmest of light from a barely rising sun, not enough to heat the morning chill cooling the air of the room. A chill unable to combat the furnace of combined warmth between the stick of skin. Unsteadily, George draws himself free of that heated haven, attentively unwinding his legs from their tangle with Owen's wincing marvellously with the pull after sensuous fatigue.

As he rolls free of the mattress, he feels the burden for the first time in the entirety of its glory. This shouldn't be so pleasing just days before a match, just hours before a sedentary journey to Twickenham for a full day worth of training. Still, his satisfaction refuses to avail him, especially with the burn of the first step, even less so with another.

Collecting what he can find of his clothes, George makes his way to the bathroom, grabbing the towel from the undisrupted bed as he passes. Once again he takes a second to mourn his former captain for an injury George couldn't be more grateful for. Perhaps that ought to make him feel guilty -one glance back at Owen's sleeping form and George knows he never could.

Grimacing slightly at the intrusive sound of the pump, George fires up the shower, all too aware of the grimness coating his body now that he's free of his enrapturing solace. Even his mouth protests at the tackiness that's built up there. The only saving grace is a small mouthwash poking out from Owen's wash bag. It's all George can do not to beam as he thinks how really, most of his current state is Owen's fault anyway, focuses on keeping his mouth securely clamped closed as he swirls the cleansing liquid all the way back to his throat.

Stepping into the spray of the shower is enough to elicit a groan from deep in his chest, scolding water making exhausted legs tremble in their relief. George has to plant a hand against the tiled wall in front of him, neck lolling forwards to hang his head low, allowing cascades down the sides of his neck, the final hints of a throb in his head at last alleviating.

Just behind him, he hears the click of the door, a soft milling before the screen beside him is drawn open, presence intruding itself as it crowds him further beneath the fall of the water. Hands grab on to support his hips as he's ushered forward, the miniscule steps paining the screaming ache in the backs of his knees. George can't help the grin this time, lets it grow unhindered as it crinkles at his eyes, still closed.

"Good morning," Owen mumbles wetly, mouth finding a place in the junction between George's neck and shoulder, hips asserting forward to nestle against George's arse, hands pulling him back intently.

"Hi," George whispers, tipping his head back as Owen sets to work on the solid tension in his trapezius, fleeting kisses left amidst brutally marking sucks. He folds an arm awkwardly up behind himself, slips fingers into already dampened hair and holding Owen close in his actions this time, no thought to push him away. The hands on his hips glide round, skimming over the wet surface of his lower torso until they come to rest at his abs, holding him close.

"Didn't like waking up without you there," Owen huffs into the muffle of muscle, sinking his teeth in punishingly as if to scold. George gasps at the harsh bite, his already burdened knees quaking.

"Sorry," he steadies himself, refusing to let his voice quiver, refusing to enhance Owen's satisfaction at an affect that is already so clear. "Thought you should sleep some more -I know you didn't get much last night."

"Yeah, well," Owen smiles into his shoulder, hands moving on further on their path, stopping just below George's ribcage and working their until he turns obligingly in the hold. "There's a reason for that."

"Oh?" George questions, plastering on a smirk of his own just to mirror the unmasked tease he's now facing. Tipping his chin upwards, he pouts. "And what would that be?"

"Kept getting a bit distracted," Owen leans down, lips capturing George's for the first time in what suddenly feels like such a long stretch of hours, the relief from deprivation flooding like the water around their feet.

With the kiss deepening, George lets his hands wonder, explores the expanse of Owen's abdominals, the broad scope of his chest with fingers twitching in their intrigue. As Owen's own dip down further, beyond George's tailbone to grab hungrily at lax mounds of well defined muscle, his jaw drops open fully, tongue scraping with teeth in the new space to consider.

"And anyway," Owen speaks through small pecks, pulling away no distance. "How could I possibly sleep any longer knowing you were in here," George can feel the smirk even as he can't see it, still immersed entirely in their coupling. He gasps as one hand squeezes, fingers dangerously teasing in sensitive places. "Wet," the other hand joins the assault, "and naked."

It's probably the worst moment for George to be hit with an outburst of unconcealed laughter, small yet all consuming giggles splurging through his lips and right into Owen's. He has to pull away, drop his head until his can wriggle it into the hiding of Owen's clavicle, body shuddering in his efforts to control himself.

The returning laughter is little more than a nervous huff he can feel in his fingertips, Owen's chest heaving as it deflates, as his hands retreat to a safer ground linked together behind George's waist. George allows his own to wind around Owen's back, pull him into a tight embrace by way of an apology -an explanation.

Part of him can't quite believe that it's Owen saying these things to him, _doing_ these things. It's so new, too new to be used to, but the last thing he wants is put Owen off -this is what he wants, what he needs.

"When do you think you'll speak to Eddie?" George asks, murmuring his voice into the obstruction of Owen's collarbone, swiftly and strategically changing the subject before the awkward quiet can prolong between them any longer.

His head shifts with the movement of Owen's shrug. "Sometime this weekend," he answers, arms releasing in their hold slightly to allow one hand free, fingers drawing patterns in the water cascades low on George's back. "Hopefully before the match."

"Maybe you could catch him on the coach today," George suggests. "Do you know if he's travelling with us, or?"

"I dunno -probably rather have a proper meeting about it anyway," Owen pauses in his movements, lays his arm flat to hold George against him as he steps forward, stealing more of the water for himself. "If I'm going to do it, do it properly and all that."  

"Nah, you were just hoping for some canoodling at the back of the bus, don't lie," George jokes, peering up from beneath his lashes teasingly.

"Think the rest of the team might have something to say about that," Owen laughs openly, happily, any sense of uncertain tension falling away as those familiar crowfeet sink deep into the surroundings of his eyes. "Might get away with a bit of secret cuddling if you're up for it, though."

"Yeah I could go for that," George tips his head up further, lifts carefully onto the points of his toes, searching.

"I'll hold you to it," Owen says, relenting and leaning down for a short peck, noses bumping as George eases back down, sated.

Letting himself fall back into the unyielding hold, George lets his neck drop, tucking it in close against Owen's throat as he feels the bluntness of a chin digging into the crown of his head. For a moment they simply stand, still and silent, sharing space, completely wrapped up and immersed in nothing but each other. George could let himself get used to this.

"We should probably get going," he forces himself to suggest, not at all intent on following it up. Owen may have found his sensibilities, but there are some moments call for more than just senselessness.

"We've got still got time," Owen tells him, and there's no way George would dream to argue. "Chat?"

Just that word is enough to make him grin, to beam, cheeks flushing a deep pink as they burn hot, hidden only by the solace of Owen's skin.

This is exactly what those chats should always have been, everything George hopes they can now always be.        

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wasn't sure I would get this done for this weekend, but the team announcement yesterday got me inspired. I am beyond excited for the warm-up game tomorrow, so ready to see our Georgie as captain again!  
> Hope you enjoyed!


	17. Chapter 17

Breakfast is sparse by the time George makes it down, most players presumably already heading back to their rooms to pack up for the trip to London later on. After half seriously considering just wearing his clothes from the night before and hoping for the best, George had managed to tear himself away from Owen long enough to pop back to his own lodgings to change and throw the few things he had bothered to unpack from his suitcase back inside. It had been nothing short of a god-sent when he had found the room empty, Henry's own bag and belongings tossed carelessly onto one of the beds, his roommate nowhere in sight.

Now, George can see him, chair tucked in close to Jack's as the pair of Chiefs yawn and chatter between themselves at one of the corner tables. George is quick to avert his eyes when he sees the centre's head start to rise, gaze showing potential to cast his way. With a duck of the head, George sets himself on a firm path in the direction of the buffet; still he hasn't managed to think up any answers to inevitable questions.

"Morning," he chirps, sliding in next to Jonny, biting his lip to cover a wince at the twinge, and guiltlessly interrupting whichever of Ben's stories he's in the middle of retelling. Hastily, he horses into the plate in front of him, no thought to any replies to his greeting as a bout of ravenous hunger takes hold in the wake of such a strenuous night.

"Um, morning?" Ben's tone makes George glance up from his meal, the enthused excitement of his narrative suspended in favour of curiosity.

George feels the small forebears of panic tickle in his throat as he swallows around what suddenly feels a chokingly large mouthful, not liking the attracted attention. Glancing as unnoticeably as he can manage over his shoulder, he clocks Henry, still sat a reasonable distance away, still immersed in his conversation with his club's winger. There's every chance he could have mentioned something, every chance George's absence over night has prompted him to make enquiries; every chance his already far too nosy friends now know something he wishes they didn't.

"What?" George forces as bright of a smile as he can muster, his two club mates staring at him quizzically, expectantly. Somehow he keeps the blockade from crumbling even if behind it he is frantically searching for justifications he can't be sure are actually required.

"You," Jonny points a finger at him accusingly. This time even the air feels too thick as George gulps around nothing. "What's got you so chipper?"

"What are you on about?" George still isn't certain this is as uninformed as they're making it seem, sets himself on edge as he waits for it to lead down paths he's not quite ready to follow.

"Last night when you ran off on us you were bloody miserable -been miserable for days actually," Jonny tells him and George has to take a mouthful of toast to stop himself chewing blood from his lip. "Now you come in perky as anything."

"I don't know what you mean, mate," George battles through the nervous laughter threatening to follow, any quiver in his voice muffled by this mouthful as he speak. Ben turns his nose up at the sight.

"Right," the scrumhalf drawls, blatantly unconvinced. In retaliation, George tries a quirk of his lips but is quick to bite it back down, hide it in his forkful -that's what started getting him into this mess in the first place. "I reckon he must've run off to chat to this mystery man of his, don't you, Jon?"

Under the table, George kicks at his ankles, resenting the volume of the accusation. He glances around nervously as Ben only laughs -he's good, but he'll never quite get it, will never truly understand.

"Would explain it," Jonny joins in, mischievously glinting. Shaking his head, George lets it hang low in some vain attempt to cover the rapidly intruding flush of his cheeks, doing nothing to deter his mates from just how right they are.

"I didn't," George lies, probably about as believable as much as it isn't.

Stoically as he can, George continues about his meal, allowing Ben and Jonny alike to coo over him, ask him questions he vows never to answer. It should be his luck that he would look up just as Owen waltzes his way in, ignoring his meal for less than a second to be greeted by the most severe distraction.

Dressed in his full tracksuit, ready for travel over training, the zip of his jacket remains unzipped to reveal what must be a t-shirt one size too small. The outline of his pectorals, his abs, the small poke of his nipples where the fabric is thin and the air cold -all of it is perfectly visible. Even from across the room it has George aching to touch, just to be near him again. Presumably from their shower, his short, un-styled hair still clings to a few drops of precipitation, a couple of patches clear against the white covering of his shoulders showing where a few have cascaded free. With the memories from such a short time ago whirling in his mind, it's all George can do not to shudder, shifting in his seat just for a stiff reminder.

Making his way over to grab food of his own, Owen catches George's gaze, smiling small, easy -knowingly. Still in the wake of his teammates' teasing, George feels his cheeks prickle once again as heat begins to rise into them, returning the gesture through the stark embarrassment of having been caught staring.

"You and him made up, then?" The question doesn't register even as George hears it clearly, eyes trained too fixatedly on the way Owen is piling his plate high, on the contraction of his abdominals where he has planted himself still, stretching in isolation to reach what he needs.

"Huh?" It takes another second for him to tear his focus free, eyes landing on where Ben is staring at him, eyebrows raised in expectation.

"You made up," Ben cocks his head, eyes flicking suggestively to where Owen is now sauntering towards a table of his own teammates. George can't help the irrational pang that he's not his chosen trajectory, shakes himself, berating. "With Faz?"

"Oh," George sinks back slightly in his seat, not quite knowing where to look as his mind works furiously to find an answer appropriate enough with some sense of honesty. "Uh, yeah, we -yeah."

As a response, it's useless, not in any way explanative. The exaggerated roll of Ben's eyes is telling of his dissatisfaction.

"Was he worried about the whole vice captain thing?" Ben interrogates further, leaning forward to rest his elbow on the table, chin cupped in his palm.

"No, um," George sinks his teeth into the inside of his cheek, thinking furiously of a way to talk his way round. "He was just, uh... confused -about something I'd said."

"Why? What did you say?" Jonny asks, leaning in himself as his intrigue seems to perk and George really has to fight the urge to slam his own head into the tabletop, increasingly desperate for some -any- form of escape from questions he is far too unprepared to answer.

"I don't," George sighs and scrubs a hand over his face, allowing his fingers to dig in brutally over his eyes for a moment. Any of the so called chirpiness that had first brought all this on now beyond deceased from his temperament. "I dunno -I can't remember exactly. We just talked it out and now it's all good."

He tries not to dwell on just how inaccurate a description 'talked it out' really provides.

"Well it sounds like you had a great night, then," Ben relents, slouching back in his own chair, stretching his arms behind him with an obnoxious smile that George _really_ doesn't like the look of. "Awkward chats with Faz followed by phone sex with your boyfriend? I may be a little jealous."

George really does swipe at him this time, regrets not going in with his fork as his nails get a good scrape at the sensitive flesh beneath Ben's bicep, making him wince through his galling laughter. The still uncensored volume didn't help alleviate George's unnerved agitation much, the blissful lack of awareness from his thoroughly amused teammates making his fists ball up which must just look so pathetically currish with the blush he still can't manage to fight.

"I didn't-" he cuts himself off before his own voice can rise, before his pitch becomes mortifyingly high.

"Must've been quite the show for Sladey to listen to," Jonny nods pointedly over George's shoulder. "You think he'll give us the run down, or?"

Following Jonny's line of vision over his shoulder George looks to where his roommate had been. When he finds the table empty he feels a dreaded weight hanging in his stomach, when he clocks Henry walking straight towards him, parting ways from Jack, it drops all the way into his gut. Oh no.

"Alright?" Henry asks upon reaching them, addressing the small group as a collective as George snaps his gaze away, staring fixedly at his lap. He can practically hear the poorly covered sniggers in his friends' hummed responses.

A hand clasps over his shoulder and squeezes and George is forced to try and secrete just how deep of a breath he takes before braving the look up.

"Alright, mate?" He returns, smiles small where he bites on the inside of his lip, fist releasing to allow fingers to fiddle nervously.

"I worried about you last night," Henry offers, sincerity clear even through his mild expression. "Did you come back to the room at all? Your bed didn't look slept in this morning."

Sparing a glance over towards his two tormentors, George feels himself seize as he finds their expressions dropped, brows furrowed. If he hadn't been dreading this interrogation before, he is just a melting pile of perspiration now -it would just have to be here, wouldn't it?

"Sorry I uh-" George's gaze flits away as he thinks, catching briefly a sight of Owen amidst his own club mates. Cheeks pink and head ducked, he's laughing lightly under what appears to be a torrent of teasing, the group around him roaring boisterously in an otherwise quiet room. "I stayed with Owen," George offers before he can think, enamoured. His eyes widen as he suddenly reconsiders, stuttering to falsely clarify. "Uh in Faz's room -uh in Dylan's old bed."

"Okay?" Henry prompts, his own brow furrowing in question. Sinking his nails in his palms, George takes a second to ground himself -it's only going to take one small lie, it's not like he hasn't done that before. Why the situation suddenly seems so colossal, of such great import, he's not sure -everything just feels so _real_ , so essential that he gets every detail right.

"We got to talking -about the match and stuff," George deceives, face masking a calmness his clenching gut can't quite mirror. "I guess we lost track of time and I didn't want to wake you up, so I just stayed there."

"Well," George's nails bite in so hard as Henry pauses that he's sure he feels a break to his skin. "Text or something next time, yeah?"

"Yeah -sorry, mate," George suppresses a sighing heave as best he can, shoulders hunching forward as his fingers relax away from his palms, laughing lightly to accompany Henry's teasing smile. "You off to finish packing?"

"Unfortunately," Henry rolls his eyes, hand releasing and slipping away from George's shoulder as he steps back. "You coming?"

Nodding, George stands. Looking back to his company, George considers. Jonny seems to have lost all interest in any interaction, the lacking eccentricity clearly not enough to suffice as he returns to finishing off the dregs of his coffee. Ben on the other hand is eyeing him somewhat strangely, head tilting to one side as though he's considering for himself. The last thing George wants to dwell on is exactly what he could be thinking -doesn't think he really wants to know.

With a deterring smirk, he pushes his empty plate towards the scrumhalf, shrugging mischievously as those pondering eyes narrow, mouth falling open to form protest. George steps away before he can speak, setting off quickly for Henry to follow. He casts one last look over in Owen's direction, seeing him now joining in with the ruckus, clearly having fought off whatever mocking he'd been the brunt of. It's enough to make him smile, relax in full relief before he slip free.

The next couple of hours are spent lethargically in his room, refolding every item of clothing Henry lazily shoves into his bag, waiting impatiently for his phone to charge. Perhaps from the final deflation in any required energy, George feels himself beginning to hang as the tranquil minutes wear on, truly heeding the effects of what he hadn't realised was quite such an exhaustive evening and disturbed night. Not that he could regret a single moment, no matter how tired.  

By the time everyone is packed up and ready to go, George is left all but stumbling up the stairs of the team bus, beyond ready to sink into an ignorable discomfort across two coarsely carpeted seats and soak up another hour of sleep. He barely gets three steps into his search for the imperfect haven when he feels an hand take hold of his wrist, tugging him down. It's all he can do not to whine out his protesting frustrations.

"Alright?" is all Owen says, whispered low as the rest of the squad file in around them. They're just a few rows from the front, George notes, seats in front of them to cover, too far forward to allow the rest of the lad's 'cool kid' mentalities too near.

"Good,"  George stifles a yawn around the word, back of his hand flying to cover his mouth as it stretches wide only half a metre from Owen's face. His cheeks burn, but Owen simply smiles in return, a hand sliding subtly down between them until fingers are pinching George's hip in a loose grip.

There are still people staggering past them and although George is almost certain not one of them bothers to pay them mind, he still edges in an inch further back in his seat, ensures the contact is fully obscured. Only once everyone is settled, once the coach sets off, does George allow himself to relax into an ordinary posture, into Owen's most subdued hold.

"How you feeling for Sunday?" Owen asks after long moments of silence that George is surprised he'd managed to keep his consciousness through.

"Pretty good, I guess," George hums, his head rolling back to press heavily into the headrest, lolling to the side to look more fully at Owen. "Wish I could be out there starting, but-" he shrugs.

Owen glances down, his thumb working to stroke comforting circles where he's clasping George's hip. George bites his lip, feeling the awkward sting in the air instantly. He would never want to bump Owen down from his position as a starter, wants nothing more than to be out there playing beside him. Then again he's all too aware how much Owen wants to play at ten, how unfulfilled he'd felt being abandoned and unchecked at centre for as long as he had been.

"I reckon we'll thrash them," he smiles, moving the subject swiftly back to comfortable territory.

"Yeah?" Owen prompts, attention flitting back up towards George's face, his smile soft and encouraging.

"Yeah," George continues, returning the faint, easy expression. "Everyone's been on really good form in training -and I think most of the guys are still riding the high from the win against Ireland."

"France didn't look too shabby against Wales, though," Owen counters, shifting his leg up onto the seat and folding his knee underneath himself as he angles his body towards George. "Definitely not in the first half at least."

"Good thing we're not Wales, then," George twists his neck when he feels the yawn take over this time, bending his elbow to stifle it into his forearm.

When he returns his attention Owen has his own neck tipped sympathetically, his lower lip pouting outwards only slightly, but oh-so-adorably. George has to sink his teeth into his own just to resist leaning over to kiss it, suck on it. God, he really needs to get out of his own head.

"Very good thing," Owen rounds up simply before squeezing George's hipbone tightly, briefly in his hold. "You okay? Still tired?"

"A little," George responds, although the next yawn is right there to undermine him, creeping up too quickly for him to catch.

"You want to try and catch some more kip?" Owen offers, thumb taking up its gentle stroking once again in a way that shouldn't be quite so soothing, lulling.

The sturdy structure of his shoulder is so close, a mere head tilt away. With the cushion of his white tracksuit jacket, the otherwise hard, sharp edges are softened so perfectly -the perfect pillow. George eyes it wantonly, ever so tempted. And yet he can't, not here.

George glances back up to Owen's face, ready to take him up on his suggestion. Still smiling softly, Owen catches his eye, squeezes his hip and George finds that it doesn't matter that he's tired, doesn't matter that he can't cuddle himself up against Owen and doze. No, this is right where he wants to be, _how_ he wants to be.

At the shake of George's head, his pliant smile, Owen grins, shifting slightly forward in his seat towards him. For a second he thinks Owen might even swoop in for the kiss that is being so desperately suppressed -thinks he might just want him to.  

One particularly loud burst of laughter, a sudden intrusion from whichever group has settled into the rows behind them is a reminder enough that that's just not a possibility.

As it is Owen merely fixes his smile, sets in to continue their discussion at length.

~~~~~

Twickenham is filled with more bustle than George's recalls to be average. Generally the Captain's Run for most home games brings with it a respectable influx of press, an ignorable, observing scrutiny to well rehearsed operations. Yet in the wake of the win from the game against Ireland, there's been a certain buzz bubbling around public relations, fans and media alike seemingly enthralled by a new anticipation at just what the rest of the campaign may bring. George can't say his intrigue isn't peaked, too, but as he sits through yet another group interview for whichever newspaper he's managed to forget the name of he can't help the itch of resentment at its propensity to keep him off the pitch.

Beside him, Owen is talking candidly, his face pinched and serious, voice as low and gruff as ever as he imparts a thorough answer to a question George hadn't bothered to listen to. The response from the reporter is less than appreciative, not in the way it most definitely should be -barely so much as a pleased hum before she swiftly moves on to the wingers beside them. Such thoughtful insight deserves better than that, George decides, biting his cheek and averting focus towards the ground to prevent the displeased eye roll that's threatening.

With the attention of the journalist refocused, George feels Owen slump, the two of them packed in close enough that he feels the sag of his shoulders in deflation. Blindly, George extends the short distance, the back of his hand brushing invisibly against the strong pane at the side of Owen's thigh. Like a physical pang, George can feel Owen's alleviation, relief at the fulfilment of another of his endless duties.

A small shift of weight has Owen pressing into the touch, has George assured that the gesture is noticed, appreciated.

They stand for another few minutes as the interview wraps up, sharing unnoticeably in space and contact. Only a few words of input from George apparently suffice and it's not long before they're bundled back onto the pitch for further training. Even the arduous run-through of match day formalities is a welcome escape from the ill-place witticisms and long-winded intrusions of media.

Owen gives a good speech after, rallies the team up into a united confidence, face stern with an exhausted ferocity. Afterwards, George joins in with the group clap, but he's sure his timing is way off where his eyes are trailing away, distracted by the expression just across from him. Owen's features are blank, giving nothing away in his new found silence. George tilts his head, questioning as Owen catches his eye, offering a shrug along with a weak smile.

Around him, the rest of the team begin to disperse and George is just starting to consider making his approach when a small cluster of the PR team force their interception. He pauses, halfway through a step forward, frowns as Owen nods forlornly at whatever is commanded of him, as he trudges off behind a couple of the camera crew.

George doesn't know what more they could want from him, wants to reach out and steal him back, keep him all to himself, shield him from the exhaustive work so ruthlessly demanded of him. As though any of that is some kind of feasible possibility.   

Dejectedly, George heads back in to the changing rooms with the rest of the squad, ignores the lively bubbles of chatter in favour of slowly and precisely packing up his things -everything in its place. Superstitions may not be something he pays much mind to, but in this tournament, after the woes of last year, with what looms just around the corner, George is willing to leave nothing to chance.

He doesn't see Owen again until dinner. Not properly, not more than a glimpse as he walks away, is dragged away, by staff or enthused teammates. No, he only catches full sight of him as he heads determinedly towards George's sparse table, as he bypasses beckon calls from multiple others with the worst possible display of faux deafness. George can't help the way his thighs clench as he sees Jamie's brow furrow when his own call is ignored. Nothing is deterring Owen from his path, not until he's slipping right into the empty seat beside George.

The sigh he exhales as he slumps down into stiff plastic, shoulders sagging heavily, is too debilitated for comfort and George fixes him a small smile, hopefully encouraging, comforting in their chaotic surroundings.

"You okay?" George asks uselessly, finding Owen's foot beneath the table to tap with his own in search of recognition. The night before a match, excited anticipation booming, and the dining room has exploded to a noise level far in excess of even its normal shrieking decibels.

Owen simply nods, sparing George a quick flash of his own smile, teeth baring in his trademark fakery. His hand settles onto George's thigh, though, hidden safely where they're tucked in close beneath the obscurity of the table. George feels the tension that had gathered there release instantly, unable to help the way he relaxes into the secure hold even as he contemplates pushing further, insisting. For now, he decides, this is enough.

They eat dinner in an easy silence, the noise raging on around them providing soundtrack enough. There are light bursts of conversation now and then, George batting away Ben and Jonny's attempts to ridicule him in their usual torturous fashion, biting back with a few snipes of his own where he can be bothered. Although his focus keeps drifting, tugged back every time to the steady pressure on his leg which returns at every moment Owen deems his knife an unnecessary commodity.

Eddie ends the meal with an expectedly rousing speech of his own, the same as any pre-match inspiration George has heard before. It's simple to tune out, to subtly let his hand lift from its place hanging beside him, to wind his fingers through those that have now staked their permanent claim to his leg.

It's only when Owen stands, when the pressure from his leg avails, that he really regards what is happening, that he realises he must have been called upon yet again.

George can't help wincing pitifully as he hears the tired croak in Owen's voice. To anyone else he would sound as strong and powerful in his speech as ever he is, as he makes a point of being in all aspects of duties. George can tell, though, can tell something is wearing on him, no matter how fiercely he powers through.

Next to him, he can see that Owen's knees reach just below the table, the one steady asset that has procured them such solitude this evening. Without a second thought, George lifts his hand the short distance, taking a somewhat awkward yet undeniably needed hold just beneath Owen's kneecap.

On reflex, Owen buckles slightly in his stance, voice wavering in his speech. The small smile it induces, however, the boost of confidence George can hear following through afterwards, makes the risk worthwhile. It sees him through to the end.  

He only releases his tight clutch as people begin to clear out around them, groups collecting to form their evening entertainment, individuals sloping away for early nights or to call families in a private preparation of their own. As he stands himself, George feels his fingers clench around nothing, combating the ache in his legs which has now intensified post-exercise, and desperate for a hold now lost.

"-was thinking maybe we could play a bit of cards," he attunes to hear Jonny saying, addressing only the few of them that remain. Beside him, George feels Owen stiffen, his bicep protruding its tension outwards into George's own where they're close enough to share space. "Find a lounge or just use one of our rooms or something?"

"Yeah I'm up for it," Ben replies and George would just curse him if he could, curse them both. There's no excuse springing to mind, but he knows he needs to find one quick -quicker than he's managing as expectant eyes land on him where he and Owen both remain tactfully silent.

"Uh-" he starts, pausing with nothing to say. His jaw flexes around words he can't seem to muster.

"Did you -um," Owen inserts lowly, turning his body in towards George and effectively blocking off any openness in the group, honing in on the short distance between them. "Didn't you want to go over a few of the things Eddie was saying in that meeting the other day?"

"Yeah," George nods eagerly, too eagerly, reining himself back probably a second too late. No matter, they have their way out. "Yeah that would be good. See you lads tomorrow?" He glances over to his club mates, but Owen is already tugging him away, the pull of his gravity stronger than any meagre wrest of George's jacket.

Jonny merely shrugs, satisfied and George turns to move off after Owen, almost fully turned when he sees it.

Ben is definitely eyeing him oddly this time, squinting over a curious smirk. He studies George carefully, searching eyes flitting over to where Owen is already heading away. George can only shake his head aimlessly as he turns fully, follows on in Owen's trail as they make their way out of the room. Right now it's the last thing he needs to think about.

Finding an empty room is a bit of a struggle,  but they manage eventually. One often used for events and meetings, chairs stacked up high in each corner where it's been packed away -empty, unused. Owen ushers him hurriedly inside, grabbing his hand after the briefest glance around an otherwise abandoned corridor, a rush of thrill flooding his stomach at the sound of the door slamming, the painful press of a doorknob against his lower back.

There are lips on him instantly, brushing delicately against his own for the barest moment before he feels the kiss seal and spark in its intensity. He feels himself being crowded further, Owen's chest puffing out each breath in retaliation to George's own, hands coming up to hold his face still, cup his jaw gently.

Another push sees the door handle dig one notch deeper into sensitive vertebrae and a small squeak of discomfort slips free, absorbed by Owen's tongue as it swirls assertively. The hands drop, then, finding instead a solid grip around each of George's hips, pelvis held tightly as Owen tugs him forward, away from the intrusive metal.

Loosening in their grip of his hips, the hands slip further round until arms are encompassing his waist fully, squeezing tightly enough to lift him, force him up onto his toes. George reaches an arm up to Owen's neck, fingers playing with the short hair at the base of his skull as he uses the leverage to pull him down further, ease his own angle.

"Finally," Owen hums as he backs barely away, their kiss losing all vehemence in favour of chaste brushings, noses rubbing.

"Sure you're okay?" George checks, still utterly unbelieving of Owen's earlier weak response. He slides his fingers deeper, letting the pads sink a little further into the tension, petting in a gentle massage that has Owen tipping back into his touch, trying futilely to keep them connected in their kiss.

"I am now," Owen sighs, a quirk tugging at the corner of his lip. George feels the tickle of a blush rise at the compliment, leans up to join them once again in a vain hope to disguise it. "Been a long day is all," Owen shrugs, chasing George as he eases back down -teasing.

"You're gonna be good for tomorrow, though?" It doesn't need to be asked, but George can't help the question, can't help the concern.

"Yeah, course," Owen's smile grows as he lets his head fall forward, staring down at George, thumb moving in the dip of his spine. "Why? You hoping you could nab my starting spot?"

It's light, George knows, said around a huff of laughter, but he can't help allowing it to land flat, unsure of exactly what his reaction should be. Delayed, too delayed, he smile, heaves his shoulder in an appreciative chuckle, but Owen's face still falters slightly.

Maybe it's something they should air out, is definitely something George wishes they -he- could joke about. But he can't, he's not sure why, he just -can't.

"Week off next week," he says instead, moving them on from the blip, shuffling in that impossible bit closer, pressing their bodies tighter.

"I know," Owen grins, squeezing George around his middle. "You gonna come over?"

"If you want me to," George shrugs as best he can in the confines of the embrace, tries to seem as nonchalant as he can while a whole new bout of butterflies bursts in the pit of his stomach. Owen wants him to go round, wants to spend their time off together. That shouldn't excite him anywhere near as much as it does.

"Well, if you want to," Owen teases gently, leaning in an inch further to bump George's nose with his own affectionately. "They want me up at Sarries for some meetings and stuff the first couple of days, but after that? Come and stay?"

"Yeah," George breathes, smiles, lets their lips press in the kiss they're both clearly searching for. "Sounds great."

"Yeah?" Owen asks, searching for an unnecessary reassurance. Grinning, George nods simply and rocks up onto the balls of his feet, pressing a peck into the corner of Owen's lips. He can't wait.

"Have you had a chance to speak to Eddie," George wonders out loud as he settles back down into his place, thought mindlessly springing free without any really regard for the answer he's looking for. He can't pretend that it hasn't been playing on his mind, that he hasn't been glancing over at Ashton every chance he gets and wondering if he's still alone in keeping an eye fixed.  

"Not yet," Owen shakes his head, brushing in for a quick, short kiss as he pauses. George can only be thankful that it hides any hint of dejection he's not immediately able to catch. "Haven't really had the chance. I guess I'll catch him at some point when we come back."

George doesn't bother to point out that Owen probably has had the chance, had multiple chances, that this really doesn't need the full formal meeting that he had once been so desperate to avoid. He doesn't voice the question he'd been pondering since Owen first told him he'd speak with their coach, doesn't ask again if he's sure -if it's a conversation he'll ever actually initiate.

Instead he reaches up once again, searching.

Owen lets out a long breath, mouth opening easily under George's request, jaw slackening. Bringing his other arm up, George slide both his hands down to Owen's neck, pinching the torte muscles there just to feel the resulting shudder against him, the quiver all the way down to the core.  

Pulling back, they stand, silence washing over them, staggered breath slowly synchronising. George runs his hands in large steady circles over the broad breadth of Owen's shoulders, stopping occasionally to dig his thumbs into any knots of tension. It must be minutes, sharing air, foreheads sticking in the close humidity.

The questions still play on his mind, but George won't push, Owen doesn't need him to, doesn't need to talk anymore than he already has today.

George just leans forward, adjusts himself so he can get his head resting on Owen's shoulder. His arms drop lower as he wraps himself fully into the hug, leaving a small kiss against Owen's clavicle.

Their time undisturbed won't last much longer, voices beginning to trickle through as teammates find the rooms adjoining. It won't be long until they find this one, until a break in their solitude is forced.

There's more that George could say, but for now this is good. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So today's game was... low scoring? Maybe that's all I'll say. Or... a shame? -yeah, a shame.


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> England 44 - 8 France, in the days following.

With the M1 stacked halfway back to Leicester, traffic at a gridlocked standstill, George is starting to get restless.

It had already been late when Owen had called, his club duties finally abating and even amidst the exhaustion George could hear in his voice he'd still had to talk him down from driving up to collect him. Only with a promise that he would get in his car and drive down there and then had George managed to deter him. Something he's now beginning to regret.

The predicted two hours is just about ticking over to three when George finally finds his way to Owen's home, pulls his car neatly into the space left for him on the driveway. Now that he's here the tension can release, the taut stiffness in his traps relieving with the alleviation to his focus, fingers unwinding from their knuckle-breaking hold around the steering wheel.

In the rear-view mirror he sees the front door to the house peeling open a fraction, warm light from the lamps inside leaking through, combating the harsh streetlights ahead of him. With the appearance of a familiar silhouette George feels himself start to smile, lips quirking barely upwards in the corners as a small tickle of anticipation bubbles in his stomach. In the space now left in the wake of the stress the long, tiresome drive had caused, a fluttering of nerves begins to sink into its place.

"Were you just waiting for me to pull up?" George asks as he opens the car door and steps out into the dimly lit drizzle, teasing rife in his voice as he refuses to give in to the nervous quiver.

"Maybe," he can hear the responding smile without needing to see it, can feel the track of Owen's eyes as he walks round to his boot. He blows out the apprehensive huff of air as he's turned out of sight, taking his time to pull his bag to his shoulder, to retrieve the bottle of wine beside it -setting himself.

Adjusting the wine in his hand as he uses his free arm to close the door, blushing at his struggle to reach its height, at the quiet chuckle he hears from behind him. He scowls as disapprovingly as he can, sauntering towards the door in a full display of faux confidence. There's a slick of precipitation forming at his palms, the neck of the bottle slipping a little in his grip, but George is more than happy to blame the rain ahead of the nervous perspiration.

"You took your time," Owen observes as he steps back to allow George inside, clicking the door closed, sealing their solitude, their safety.

"Traffic was a nightmare," George explains as he bends down to tuck his shoes neatly away into the corner, taking more time than necessary over the task, teasing it out with Owen's presence crowded close behind him. When he finally turns, he has to bite his lip at the look on Owen's face, battling down his own surge of hunger at the desirous glint in eyes intent on staring, still dipped low to where George's flaunting is no longer.

There's the tickle of a giggle forming in his throat, nervous response to the influx of his flustered, but George forces it down, swallows, lets himself go with the movement when Owen steps in towards him, hand slipping around his waist to tug him forward.

"As you would expect after nine in the evening on a Wednesday," Owen jokes lightly and George huffs a short laugh in appreciation, turns his head so his cheek presses into the supporting shoulder, leaning his weight there.

"Had to stop off and get you this as well," George lifts his hand still slick in its grip around the bottle of wine, shaking it in gesture. He wraps the other around Owen's back as best he can, bag still slung over his shoulder hanging awkwardly between them, sealing the half embrace with a heavy sigh. It's only been a couple of days but the relief he feels at the reunion, the comfort of the contact, is enough to be overwhelming -consuming.

"We're not meant to be drinking," Owen reminds and George can feel the lightly amused smile where he tips his nose into the loosening strands of his day-worn fringe, lips finding his forehead. At his back, George clenches his fingers in Owen's jumper, letting it ground him, stop him from swaying desperately forward into the affection.

Instead he shrugs his response, just one shoulder heaving upwards where the other is crushed securely against Owen's chest.

"Couldn't show up empty handed again, could I?" He reasons, eyes slipping closed as Owen finally lets his lips form the kiss he'd been hoping for. The simplicity of the intimacy is an easy distraction from the cumbersome small-talk, necessary only to fill an otherwise empty quiet, one that would undoubtedly allow nerves to flourish.

Owen hums, hand rubbing a couple of brusque lines across George's lower back before he steps back, fully away from the solace of the hold. The break had been eventually required, but George can't help missing the contact as soon as it avails. He focuses on concealing his dejection as he looks up to Owen for direction, hones in on the palm still pressed to his back as it ushers him gently.

He lets himself be lead through the living room door, doesn't question as Owen doesn't immediately follow, instead dropping his bag down beside the sofa he perches himself on, placing the bottle on the coffee table in front. Owen is quick to reappear, two stemmed glasses in hand. Rest week or not, Owen had been right -they really shouldn't be drinking; George smiles at Owen's propensity to ignore even his own instruction.

Seizing the bottle from the table, Owen pours two, probably overly generous, glasses, George watching amusedly as the crimson liquid climbs higher and higher. He accepts his own graciously when it is handed to him, waiting for Owen to take a seat down beside him before he takes the first tentative sip.

"You alright?" Owen asks after knocking back a far more respectable mouthful of his own. His eyes dart down to where George's fingers are cupped around the glass, index tapping quickly, quivering slightly as it does. George follows the gaze, catches himself still as his head ducks embarrassedly.

"Yeah," George bites his lip, fighting off a blush. "Sorry, I'm just a bit-"

He pauses, unsure of how to finish, of just how honest he should be. The nerves he feel are unnecessary, he knows -unexplainable really. This shouldn't be as hard as it's starting to feel, as weighted with importance as it is. If only every moment could be spent in the ease of intimacy, that had felt simple enough.

"Nervous?" Owen asks and George glances up. He's smiling knowingly in his assumption, lopsided where his teeth are sunken into his own lip and George is hit with his mirror image. Perhaps he's not so alone in his irrational tension, it would explain the small-talk, the obscenely large portions of alcohol. No -George smiles back- it's not just him.

"Kind of," he admits, shaking his head in self-reprimand. It's stupid, but at least they may both be feeling it.

There's a dip in the sofa as Owen shunts himself forward, suddenly crowding into George's space. He takes the hand not wrapped around the glass and George lets his arm be tugged without resistance, a thumb gliding over his knuckles as Owen brings the hold into his lap. Leaning forward Owen connects their lips, jaw clenched where their mouths slide chastely together. It lasts only seconds, but George sinks into it entirely, nothing but the feeling of the kiss washing over him as the butterflies in his stomach begin to dissipate.

"Better?" Owen asks as he tips his head back, out of George's space. In his lap, he winds their fingers together until they entwine.

George nods, squeezing Owen's hand in his own as he slouches, finally relaxing enough as his side sinks into the back cushions of the sofa. Following him down, Owen remains tucked in close, bringing a leg up beneath himself leaving his knee pushing into George's thigh.

"How was everything at Sarries?" George asks, sipping his wine slowly to hide the quirk of his lips as he watches the way Owen plays distracting with the fingers of their locked hands.

"Boring," Owen answers plainly, although he smiles around a sip of his own drink playfully. "Was kind of jealous of all the lads getting to train while I was stuck in meetings."

Rolling his eyes, George shifts, lifts his leg to alleviate the pressure of Owen's knee digging in to the sore stretch of muscle. "Trust you to get restless after one day," he lets his leg fall heavily on top of the offending knee, edging in a touch closer with the movement.

"Please," Owen snorts teasingly. "As if you're not just as bad."

"I'm pretty happy to have a week off, actually," George pouts defensively. It's all provocative, not even entirely true.

After playing twenty minutes against France, the most he's played off almost every match all season, he thought he could be satisfied, assured that he's proved all the worth he could. Except the game had just -plateaued. They hadn't needed another score, had needed nothing more than too see the huge points margin through. And that's exactly what they had done, that's the exact lack of impact he had made.

Still, that isn't his point here. "Don't know about you..." He continues his tease flirtatiously, flitting his eyes up to Owen's from beneath his lashes as he leans ever so slightly further forward.

"I guess a week off might be alright," Owen laughs, swaying in to plant a peck on George's lips and leave him chasing weakly when he retreats quickly.

"Might?" George demands, smirking through a mock exasperation at Owen's cheek. He has to take a long, slow mouthful in an attempt to combat it.

"Well, we'll have to wait and see, won't we?" Owen grins, outrageously smug, clearly far too entertained by his own mischief. If George had a free hand he could just slap him.

"Nope, sorry," he asserts, twisting his fingers until he makes enough of a nuisance to wriggle them free of Owen's grasp. He sits himself up until he's upright, shuffling to the edge of his seat and pausing only to throw a roguish smile of his own over his shoulder. "I didn't spend three hours on the motorway just to 'wait and see'."

He makes to stand up, only with no real intention of going anywhere, when he feels an arm encompass his waist.

"Come here," Owen growls, hauling George backwards until he collides with the solidity of a chest, the action so suddenly rough that George squeals in his attempt to keep his glass steady, to keep the crisp material beneath them unmarred by the liquid threatening to drip and stain.

Teeth bare into the meat of his shoulder admonishingly, hard enough to make him gasp as his head tips back in search of both more and relief from the assault. Owen places mouths soothingly over the bite, showing little care for the damp patch of dribble he leaves on George's top, even as he cringes away from the wetness sticking to his skin. Turning his neck, George catches Owen's lips with his own before the sopping kisses can trail on any further.

George hears the clink of a glass against wood as Owen's leans them both forward, never allowing a disconnect. As his own glass is tugged free from his hand and placed down, George turns his body free of the harsh crick in his neck, using the newfound freedom in both arms to wrap up and clutch on to Owen's shoulder. With the leverage, George tugs him down and allows the kiss to deepen easily, his teeth grazing playfully against the firm slide of Owen's tongue.

Feeling himself being pushed insistently, George goes with the hints and eases downwards, Owen following with every centimetre, until he feels the armrest of the sofa digging in incessantly halfway up the back of his skull. He whines plaintively into Owen's mouth, his lips still laving pitifully in his seeking of comfort from the awkward position.

"Faz," he huffs, disgruntled as Owen pulls back, lifting the pleasant pressure of his weight over George until the presence is far too light.

Owen simply shushes him as he reaches behind himself, fiddling momentarily until he returns his weight with a pillow in hand. Ushering George upwards, he arranges it until he's pleased, laying him back down with the more than pleasing assistance of a long, slow kiss.

Wiggling to test, George quickly finds the comfort he'd been missing. With a sigh of contentment, he lets his hands slip back home, fingers winding into Owen's hair as he holds the kiss strong and steady. His head sinks back further into the cushion, soft velour lulling enough in itself to make him go lax in the hold. The movement of his lips slows lazily until he's left with nothing to give, accepting everything Owen has with no return.

It takes another moment, but Owen pulls back at George's cease, fixes him with a bemused smile in question. George simply shakes his head, stretches languidly with use of the new extension in his arms at Owen's retreated distance.

"Comfy," he hums in answer to the amused question in Owen's expression, relishing in the way it makes him laugh.

"Comfy _enough_?" Owen quips, wiggling his eyebrows audaciously, smile slipping into a wicked smirk.

At his proceeding fit of giggles, the flush that overcomes his cheeks, George doesn't miss the falter in Owen's features. He refuses to let the blip amplify, however, pulls Owen closer towards him so he can get his head buried in the safe hideaway of Owen's shoulder. Beneath the weight above him, George draws his legs up more fully onto the sofa, getting one wriggled under Owen until it is pressed between him and the back cushions. His foot hooks around until he can squeeze Owen in closer with a heel at the small of his back.

Perhaps he's just a little lucid from all the wine, but the idea hidden amidst Owen's double entendre is beyond appealing. As much as he would love for Owen to whisk him away up to his bedroom, to scarcely leave it for the next however many days, there's something so devilishly exciting about the suggested spontaneity.

God, it's only the living room for Christ's sake -he really ought to avoid getting ahead of himself.

Still, with the kiss Owen seizes him in is more than enough to get him beyond ahead of himself. Moaning softly, he bunches the fabric of Owen's jumper into tightly clenched fists at his shoulders, pulling upwards with no regard to the quality of the cashmere as he tries to yank the offending article away from the expansive flesh underneath.

With his heel, he presses in hard, grinning at the responding his as Owen's hips thrust forward. Just how reflexive the move is, George isn't sure.

Into the kiss, Owen tuts, beaming as he pulls away and brushing their noses together tentatively.

"Naughty Georgie," he reprimands teasingly.

George thinks his heel might just squeeze hard enough to bruise.

~~~~~

Despite the ever-emitting body heat plastered against him, the radiator still beating out an artificial warmth barely six feet away, George feels himself shiver.

The slick of sweat now forming a sheen over his skin is certainly doing its job in cooling him down where his bare flesh is exposed to the air, no matter how crammed it is against skin and fabric alike. All he can do is thank God that the sofa isn't leather where his arse is pressed firmly into the back cushions, Owen's breadth taking up a vast majority of room.

Speaking of. He shifts forward as best he can, asserting his position further where he's already led half on top of the body beside him. No matter, he trembles once more, the exposure of further skin to the air from the movement allowing only for yet another assault from the cold.

At his shudder, the arm held around his shoulders slips lower, angling diagonally and covering as much of his torso as is manageable.

"Cold?" Owen whispers the question as he heaves him against his own body as though it would be enough to warm him through when it hadn't been before.

"A bit," George shrugs, although is immediately undermined by yet another tremble rippling down his spine, shaking all the way into his legs in their partial straddle over Owen's hips.

Drawing his other arm up, Owen joins his hands low on George's hip, leaving him held in a tight embrace. "Bed?" He asks, laughing brightly at George's instant whine of disapproval.

"Don't want to move," George complains lazily, still shivering as he turns his neck to press his face into Owen's pectoral. He can feel the laughter still rumbling there, smiling despite the chill as he nuzzles the cold tip of his nose into the warm, taut flesh.

"Alright," Owen sighs and starts to shift, gently manoeuvring the both of them until he has enough room to begin slipping free, skin peeling uncomfortably with the action. George really does whine as his only source of heat deserts him, reaching out pathetically as Owen swings himself free to stand, grabbing uselessly at a hand that had previously held him tight.

The cold must already be getting to his head. Or maybe he's entirely effected for other reasons. He has to squish his face into the warm patch Owen left behind at _that_ thought, still squeezing his fingers tight as he tries weakly to pull him back in spite of his self-induced fluster.

"I won't be a second," Owen promises fleetingly, leaning down to leave an amused peck on George's temple. It's enough to make George relent in a hold that could have been easily escaped at any time, however reluctantly. The naked form slinking away from him in the dark is more than enough to sate his discontent.

Combating another shiver, George lets his eyes slip closed, even lets sleep pull him close to the brink before suddenly he's not so cold anymore. The blanket being draped around him is silken, cozy -the kind of blissful material made so disappointingly of softened plastic. George huddles under its haven instantly, curling back in tight to the back of the makeshift bed to back room for Owen's return.

With his new covering pulled high up to his neck, he wrangles with the large stretch of material until he can get it wrapped around Owen, arm falling to hold over the top of his torso beneath the shared comfort. Leaning in, he presses their foreheads together firmly, uncaring of the far too minimal space for such fully grown beings as his eyes squeeze closed to chase the sleep he'd come so close to reaching.

"You're going to make me stay here all night, aren't you?" Owen murmurs, breath beating out hot puffs against George's frost-tipped nose, spreading down the course of his spine.

"You don't have to," George tells him, but his arm tightens its hold as he speaks, a grip too strong to so easily escape.

"Sure," Owen laughs, short and quiet and George feels his own hold being mirrored in return.

Smiling into the coming kiss, George sinks deeply into the perfect lack of comfort, tugs Owen closer without the room where he must be half falling off the sofa. There's something less than enjoyable beginning to form in the reduced stretch of his neck, his legs aching where they're tucked and somewhere in the back of his mind he acknowledges that it was foolish to deny Owen's offer of a bed.

No matter -their bed is what they've made it.

~~~~~

"Good morning."

George groans at the whispered intrusion, a hand at his head petting him gently into wakefulness. There's a flood of light illuminating the room that most certainly hadn't been there last he'd known and he's forced to squint around a series of blinks as he does his best to rouse himself. One finally stretch does it, the languid movement tilting his neck just an inch and -ouch.

Wincing, he brings a hand up to hold over the crick, eyes flitting around in a misted confusion at the sudden pain. Only then does he clock the sofa, does he remember his own refusal to leave what had only hours ago felt such a safe solace. Oh, how he's regretting it now.

Turning his head to the side, he inflicts the stretch further through the sharp sting, the hand in his hair slipping round further to cup between the mediocre pillow and his temple. Owen is crouching just in front of the sofa, now redressed in the jogging bottoms George distinctly remembers tossing halfway across the room the previous night, chest bare and flushed where the radiator beats out an immense heat into the room.

George can't help the smile that forms through his grimace, pain still resonating through afflicted tendons.

"Yeah, mine's a bit worse for wear this morning, too," Owen laughs, hold releasing as he pushes himself upwards, perching beside George in a space he can hardly believe housed them both all night. "Got you to blame for that."

"I said you could go to bed if you wanted," George defends weakly, sleep-ridden voice croaking pitifully. He coughs as he shifts his weight up onto his elbows, not relenting despite his fatigue until he's sat fully upright, blanket bunching at his lower half. Punishingly, he brings his feet up to rest in Owen's lap where they're now sat opposite, poking cold toes hard into the warm skin of his abdomen, smirking at the flinch it draws.

"Because I was ever going to do that," Owen rolls his eyes, amusedly dismissive, and George feels a smug glow enshroud him at the implication.

Leaning forward before he slouches back fully, Owen grabs a mug from the table, taking a long sip as his cocks his head forward in gesture. "Made you one, too. Probably not as sweet as you like, but-" he shrugs.

"Thanks," George responds, smiling in perfunctory appreciation as he regards the steaming mug, flanked by the two glasses of abandoned wine from the night before.

"What do you want to do today?" Owen asks absently, free hand coming down to encompass George's feet where they remain in his lap, squeezing whatever semblance of warmth he can manage into the cool digits of his toes.

"I can think of a few things," George asserts, feeling entirely wrong as he throws an utterly 'Owen wink' in his direction. The confidence is all faked, all too familiar butterflies settling in the second it's out there. Only the responsive laughter is enough to make the, probably not too well concealed, anxiety alleviate somewhat.

"Naughty boy," Owen admonishes teasingly, grinning delightedly as he tickles the sole of George's feet, forcing the wriggling laughter from him ruthlessly. " _Apart_ from that," he clarifies, relenting to take a firm hold of George's ankles, keeping him still from further kicking. "Is there anything you want to do today?"

"I don't know," George tells him honestly, racking his brain to think of something -anything- they could do discrete enough to avoid suspicion. "Is there really a lot we can do without it looking -y'know?"

"Of course there is," Owen's brow creases into confusion for a moment before George watches the realisation dawn. "Georgie, the first thing people assume when they see us isn't going to be that we're sleeping together."

"No I know that," George chooses to glaze over just how little he likes the term 'sleeping together', how sordid an affair it implies this all to be. Now isn't the moment to get caught up on semantics. "I just thought it might seem a bit -I dunno- odd? Like, we're not club mates or anything and we spend weeks together training and then get seen spending our time off together too?"

"I don't think it's odd," Owen states, all matter of fact, but George doesn't miss the insinuation in his tone, the questioning of George's own opinions.

"No, I don't either, it's just that," George sighs shaking his head. His trepidations are irrational, he knows, and for it there's no easy way to explain them. Instead he simply shrugs, doesn't bother any further.

"Maybe we just go for a walk or something?" Owen suggests after a moment, fingers slowly beginning to trail patterns on the ankles still in his hold. "There are some pretty private footpaths and stuff around -and it's the middle of the week. I just think I'll go stir crazy cooped up in here all day with no rugby to watch or anything."

"Yeah, I-" George pauses to consider it for a moment. He knows Owen is right really, knows that it would take a certain kind of person to immediately jump to the conclusions that are actually so true. And it sounds nice, the suggestion, something he can't help but want even beyond his hesitations. "Yeah I'd like that."

"Good," Owen smiles, quickly turning mischievous as he leans forward, bending down to the floor in front of the sofa. "You'll probably need these first, though."

George squeaks as something is tossed into his lap, gawking at the briefs that land there, waist size several too large to be his own.

"These are yours!" He scolds, scandalised, picking up the offending article and weaponising it a whip to flick mercilessly at Owen's exposed upper body.

"Hmm," Owen hums suggestively, laughing lightly as he staves off another bout of George's attack. Quirking an eyebrow, he smirks. "What a thought. Very sexy."

"Shut up," George mutters, throwing the underwear back at Owen once and for all before his blush can become all too embarrassing. On the heat of his flushed cheek, Owen leans over to press a sloppy, overdramatized kiss and laughs at the way George playfully shoves him away as he stands.

Placing his mug back down on the coffee table, Owen reaches down to grab the bag George had forgotten he'd abandoned down beside their makeshift bed and heave it up onto his shoulder. Holding his hand out to George, he says, "come on, let's get dressed."

Taking the hand offered to him, George swings his legs round and moves to stand, pausing only as he feels the softness of the blanket caressing... places. Biting down on his lip, he looks up hesitantly, hit suddenly by a shyness.

"What is it?" Owen laughs at the presumably ridiculous look on George's face. This morning really isn't doing much for his dignity.

"Just, er-" George flounders, gripping at his only covering where it's bunched around his hips, his only grounding coming from the squeeze of his fingers in Owen's hand. "I'm naked."

His blush only deepens at Owen's resounding laugh, bending down to take George's other hand in his own, pulling it free from its hold as he sidles in close to George's face. Nose bumping George's cheek, Owen mutters close to his ear, "I've seen you naked, Georgie."

And with that he pulls abruptly backwards, standing upright with a hefty tug on both of George's arms. As he's forced upwards, the blanket falls from around George's hips, pooling into velvety puddle at his feet and leaving him stark and open to behold. God, he doesn't think he's ever been so thankful for a room with a garden view; the window facing only the privacy of the yard.

Without another word, little more than a pleased smirk, Owen leads him upstairs, into a pleasantly plain bedroom, if a touch too unkempt for George's liking. Nonetheless, he begins to dress wordlessly, giving no comment on the unruly pile of clothes stacked up in the corner by the wardrobe. There's no need, he's happy to remind himself as he distracts himself with his admiration for Owen's display as he changes.

They end up driving a short way, Owen living close enough to the city outskirts that it doesn't take long to reach the small stretch of country. Aside from a few dog walkers, there's no one else to be seen throughout the expanse of fields and woodland and the fresh air is more than refreshing -needed after being so enclosed in car and house alike for so many hours. George can only regret that he'd almost tried to excuse the two of them out of this, that he'd allowed such unreasonable anxiety to come so close to keeping them locked away.

Standing close as they walk side by side, Owen takes his hand and despite his moment recount of his fear George readies himself to pull away. An excuse is just about starting to formulate when he feels an encapsulation of warmth beyond the slick heat of Owen's palm, their joined fingers sliding into the safely enclosed confines of his coat pocket. George smiles, argument falling away from their peace. He even leans his side in a little nearer -there is no one around after all.

As they walk, George turns his head to consider his companion, unable to hold back the dopey smile that takes hold as he regards their surroundings -regards _them._

"What?" Owen laughs nervously as George's stare prolongs, relying wholly on Owen to guide him as to what is just ahead of them.

"Nothing," George assures him, too happy in the moment to feel any embarrassment at having been caught in his adulation. "This is just -nice."

"Yeah," Owen agrees simply before they fall back into their easy silence, George finally tearing his gaze away to pay more respect to the view as a whole.

It must be at least another mile before either re-spark any conversation, not required but enjoyed as they exchange stories about their families, George laughing as hard at tales of Gabriel's antics as Owen coos over descriptions of baby Kobe.

"He's, like, properly standing up and trying to walk around now," George is saying, gushing as Owen listens intently. "It's crazy how quickly they grow up and stuff."

"Tell me about it," Owen shakes his head. "I mean, you remember when Gabe was born -it literally feels like it could've been the other day. He's nearly eight now, I have no idea how the hell that happened so fast."

"Don't," George groans around his laughter. "That makes me feel so old -last thing I remember I was cuddling your mum and dad's new baby."

"How do you think I feel?" Owen laughs brightly, eyes crinkling fondly in the corners in a way that so often accompanies discussions of his family.

George smiles and squeezes their hands together in their confinement. It's no surprise that they so easily lose track of time, starving and thoroughly worked through by the time they make it back to Owen's car, every topic of conversation chattered to its barest scrapings.

When they get home they settle in with tea and biscuits over a film and George tries desperately not to think about just how many rules of their diet plan they've managed to break in less than twenty-four hours. Instead he spends the majority of Notting Hill -Owen's appalling choice- racking over just what he could cook them for dinner. The rest he spends making trouble for himself, leaning his head on Owen's shoulder and trailing fleeting kisses there with teasingly little intent before he finds himself shoved back into the cushions, ravished by his more than riled rival until the film is well into the roll of credits.

Some of his meal plans are more than a little hindered by Owen's fridge, his stocks low on just about anything useful.

"I haven't had time to shop yet," is his capriciously selected excuse and George can only roll his eyes, knows anything he'd come up with would be nothing more than a cover for 'I don't know how to cook'.

He manages to scrape them together some chicken pasta, only vaguely worrying about the date on the cream he uses to base the sauce. Owen's appetite is more than the appreciation he needs, however, two bowlfuls gone before George gets even a slightly decent way through his own.

"Hey!" He reprimands for the third time as Owen swoops in with his fork to steal food from him yet again. "You shouldn't have eaten all of yours so quickly."

"Couldn't help it," Owen says around his mouthful, stealing yet another forkful as George bats at the offending fingers. "I'm not used to eating good cooking -it's like my mum's come to stay."

"Your mum?" George deadpans at the comparison. "I _really_ hope it's not like your mum's come to stay."

"Because _that's_ really what I meant," Owen says sarcastically and kicks at his legs under the table just as George manages to finish what little of his own meal is left, preventing any further theft. "I'm gonna have a quick shower if you fancy joining?" Owen stands, suggestion heavy in his tone.

It's tempting, beyond tempting, and if it wasn't for the stack of dishes by the sink, George doesn't think he'd be able to say no. As it is, though, he's let more than enough mess slide for one day, any more and he might just start twitching.

"It's alright," he refuses tentatively. "I'll tidy this up a bit first. See you in bed?"

"You sure?" Owen checks and George ensures that his earlier suggestiveness is returned, eyes glinting as he smirks with a curt nod.

Clearly satisfied, Owen grins and heads off with a quick peck left in George's hair. It takes a few minutes, but as the hum of the shower pump finally picks up, George sets about his tasks, making quick work of loading up the dishwasher before heading into the living room. He shakes his head at the sight, half full wine glasses and mugs of coffee still sat where they'd been left hours before -George is honestly surprised he's had the restraint.

After tidying the cups away, he wonders the room, picking up carelessly thrown items of clothing, blushing reminiscently as he finds the briefs that had caused him so much teasing.

By the time Owen saunters in from his shower, George has folded them all away, even finding appropriate homes for the pile of clothes that had been stacked in the corner.

He's tucked snugly under Owen's duvet, already dressed in his pyjamas, watching happily as a dripping wet fly half waltzes through the door with only the shield of a towel to keep him guessing. Owen grins, unravelling the towel so he can dry the water from his hair, the shoulder-width stance of his legs blatantly purposeful. George would do his best not to indulge him, but it's more than a little difficult not to stare.

"Did you clean up in here, too?" Owen asks amusedly as pulls on a pair of cotton pyjama bottoms, launching himself into bed beside George and regarding the significantly more tidy appearance of the room.

"You're welcome," George shrugs in place of acknowledgement, choosing to move the conversation on before they can get caught up on his compulsion. "Thanks for today -it's been really nice."

It's probably a bit too sappy to be entirely comfortable, but Owen seems pleased enough, smiling softly as he sways in, kissing him slow and meaningful. George brings a hand up to cup Owen's cheek, holding him near even as they break away.

"I missed you," Owen whispers, leaning forward again for the following kiss at the sentiment.

"It was only a couple of days," George points out quietly, letting Owen kiss him freely, retreating every time before either of them can take it any further.

"Too long," Owen states, shaking his head so their noses brush affectionately. "It felt like longer, anyway -I barely saw you after the game on Sunday."

And -well there's a reason for that, reasons George doesn't really want to go into, doesn't want to break their delicately built serenity with anything quite so negative. He can help the way his head dips, though, the sigh huffing through his chest before he can stop it. There's no way he's getting away with that.

"What's wrong?" Owen asks, pulling away far enough to regard him fully. George won't meet his eyes as they search his face for clues, his hand slipping away from Owen's face to fiddle mindlessly in his lap.

"It's nothing really," George quirks one shoulder. "Just didn't feel like the best game is all."

"George, we bloody smashed them," Owen laughs, sounding a little astonished at the revelation in a way that makes George's chest ache. Yeah, _they_ had smashed them, but George hadn't.

"No, I know that -like, I know the team had a really great game -for the first hour at least," George explains, doing his best to downplay it, keen to move on from the topic as soon as they can, to return to activities far more indulgent. "It's just, when I came on -well, the last twenty minutes kind of plateaued out."

"Well, I mean," Owen looks like he doesn't know what to say. George doesn't think he'd know either. "The game was already won. I guess we were just seeing things out, conserving energy and all that -you know how it is."

"Yeah, I get that," George bites down any admonishment threatening to rise in his voice as the obvious is pointed out. It's nothing he doesn't already know, nothing he doesn't really want to hear, but none of that is Owen's fault -all of this his own problem. "I just wish I could have had more of an impact, you know? Like, I just didn't really feel like I was needed."

"You wouldn't have been put out there if you weren't needed," Owen reaches down in the space in between them, places a gentle hand over George's knee. "I wish you'd've told me you felt like that."

"Sorry," George apologises pointlessly, he knows if he could do it over he would have done the exact same thing, would still have slunk off to berate himself privately without dragging Owen down with him. He's tired of doing that now, desperately wants to lighten things, to get them back on track. "It was a pretty good game to watch from the bench, though, even if I did spend most of it side eyeing Ashton."

"And here I thought you'd have been side eyeing me," Owen laughs, and George's chest heaves as he feels his tension begin to release, slipping happily back into their relentless, thoughtless teasing.

"There was a bit of that, to be fair," George grins and throws himself forward momentarily to land the chaste kiss needed to cement their return to a new normality.

Owen follows him back, though, capturing his mouth in a short kiss unrivalled so far in tonight in its intensity. "I am going to talk to Eddie," he tells him, dropping his voice back to a serious level tone as he explains. "I know I've been putting it off since I said I would, but I promise I will tell him. I don't want you having to feel like you're keeping an eye on Ashton all by yourself."

"I'm sorry if I've been pushy about it," George answers sincerely, not intending mention of the winger to bring up the turmoil that's spent months hanging between them. "You need to do it in your own time, if you do it at all. I already said I don't want you making yourself uncomfortable for my sake."

"I do want to do it, and you're not being pushy," Owen reassures. "I've just been gearing up to it, is all."

Without any words left to say, George simply asserts his support, pressing his body close as he seeks out Owen's lips yet again. His arms wind up to Owen's neck, holding strong around his shoulders as he uses the solidity there to pull himself forward, lifting onto his knees and shuffling slowly. Getting the hint, Owen brings his own legs round, crossing them until George can straddle over his thighs, dropping his weight into the cushion of his lap.

The unusual switch in the superiority of height leaves George with all the leverage he needs, controlling every move and aspect of their kiss. With his neck forced upwards, Owen has no option but to keep his jaw slack, to allow George all the access he desires to every inch of his mouth, tongue and teeth exploring persistently.

In a feeble attempt to gain back so of his lost dominance, Owen drops his hands to George's arse, thin cotton providing no barrier. George gasps as Owen takes a ruthless handful of his flesh, fingers digging into sensitivity even through the fabric there.

"You have a very cute arse," Owen mumbles into George's mouth as soon as he's given enough room for relief. He returns to the kiss immediately, teeth sinking into George's lower lip, but the responding splurge of laughter is there as ever. George has to pull himself back, shoulders shaking as he regards Owen incredulously.

"I have a cute arse?" He questions, grinning at what was no doubt a thoughtless comment, one that slipped free before Owen's brain could quite catch up. No matter he's still beaming back at him devilishly and all George can do is shake his head. "Thank you. So do you."

"Yeah I know," Owen tempts cockily, his hands still holding firm in their hold as he tugs George back in, leaning up to continue the kiss.

George tries his best, but he can't help the giggles that keep bursting through, the comment still whirling in his amusement, part of him still disbelieving that this is really Owen, that he's really saying these things. God, it's just -strange is the wrong word- hard to get his head around.

When his shoulders really start to shake again, his attempts at concealing the laughter beginning to fail more obviously, Owen pulls away. George bites his lip at the way he's being regarded, at the dip in mood as Owen slides his hands up to the safe ground of his hips.

"Alright," he starts. He's smiling, but George can tell he's serious in what he's about to say. "What's going on, giggles?"

And yeah -George thinks he probably has been doing this a bit too much, has seen that he's not always so fond of the laughter. He's not so sure that he would be either.

"Sorry," he smiles apologetically, but there's not much more he can say.

"Is this all really so amusing?" Its light enough, but it demands proper response, hinted with tones George has only ever heard in his captain's speeches. "I get it with comments like that, but..."

"I know, sorry, it's not that," George slides his own hands lower, holding over the outside of Owen's biceps, thumbs circling. "I guess I just get a bit nervous."

"I get that," Owen nods, his own thumbs mirroring George's movements at his hips. "I mean, I get nervous as hell around you, I have done for God knows how long. But I guess that's why I don't find it so funny, now that I finally have it."

George thinks that maybe he should ask exactly what _it_ is at some point, before he gets too caught up reading between lines they've still yet to lay out.

"It's just a bit-" George thinks over the words carefully, so unwilling to make anything worse in such fragile moments. "It's not weird, or funny, it's just new, you know? It's just so different from what we're used to."

"Yeah, I know," Owen hums, looks as though he might consider expanding further, but decides against, only his smile growing.

George squeaks as he's flipped, back colliding with the mattress before he knows what's what. Above him, Owen is beaming, cheeks flaring with red at the effort. His hands pinch brutally at the hipbones still squeezed hard in his hold, straddle reversing as he gets a knee wedged between the forced splay of George's legs, the pressure making him want to wince and preen all at once.

"I guess I'll just have to make sure there's not so much to laugh about from now on, hmm?" He growls.

And laughter definitely won't be a problem any longer. George doesn't think he even remembers how.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So my proofreading kind of fell prey to the game today -oops, sorry if the mistakes are abysmal.  
> Anyway, what a score line! And let's just say I was more than a little bit happy with the ten/twelve pairing this time around... only fourteen months later. Still, more than a bit worried about these injuries they keep talking about -and Mako having to come off early *eek! This is why I don't like having proper test matches as World Cup warm-ups (even if I will always them for my own personal gain, hypocrite that I am) 
> 
> Rambling over, I hope you enjoyed and as always I love to hear from you in the comments below! Thank you for reading!


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wales 21 - 13 England

"This really isn't the best way to prepare for a test match," George comments absently, his voice skewed beyond a recognisable reason where his mouth is occupied, Owen's lips refusing to break from his own even for a second as he speaks.

It's still relatively early, both of them having slinked away from breakfast within minutes of one another just to reconcile at their now frequented rendezvous in Owen's Pennyhill Park hotel room.

"I'd say it's definitely the best way to prepare for a test match," Owen leans back a fraction just to mutter before swooping forwards once again, becoming just as muffled as George had been previously. "All my stress is just melting away."

George huffs a short laugh into the kiss, but refuses to let it take him over, even allows a quiet hum of contentment as Owen's -what can only be described as utter ravishing- continues. If he dared to spare a glance at the clock, somewhere over Owen's shoulder where he has George shoved into the wall just opposing the door -both without the patience to get too far inside before they'd began to ensue on their activities, he knows the time wouldn't be a welcome sight. They're arrival to training has been getting later and later as the week wears on, a similar morning routine as today's preoccupying them ever longer.

As George lets himself sink further into the kiss, pulls Owen's hips even tighter to his own with a vice like grip around his waist, his thinks: he hadn't left Owen's last week until -well he hadn't left at all. Not until he'd packed up his car on Monday morning with a bag full of borrowed kit that people must be beginning to notice is a touch too far on the big side.

But every time he'd asked when Owen wanted him to go home the only response had been a more than assured 'I don't', and without command to adhere to George wasn't about to go finding excuses of his own. He hadn't wanted to leave then, doesn't want to leave now even if their solitude is always threatened by intrusion, even if their probably already late to where they need to be. If anything, he's just surprised Owen hasn't yet grown sick of his company.

"'s the time?" Owen asks, drawing George out of his, rather lucrative, reminiscence. He hadn't realised the depths to which his hands had dipped on Owen's glutes, how hard his teeth had sunk into his bottom lip. Even if he had wanted to, Owen wouldn't have been able to pull back to speak -George tries not to glow too smugly at that realisation.

Even so, he complies, angling his neck awkwardly until he finds sight of the clock planted on the wall of the suite, He can't help but groan. "Five to nine," he tells Owen mournfully, all too aware of what time training starts, of how long it will take them to straighten up and get down there. "D'you think we have to go?"

Owen sighs heavily in his own response. "I have a meeting," he tells George regretfully. And -George hadn't known that.

"I'm not invited to this one?" He asks, toying with his tone playfully, making the joke prevail through his genuine question. It's not that he expects to be informed of all of Owen's goings-on, he is the captain after all, with George merely a lowly vice -he's just surprised not to know by default. Maybe it's telling of just how much they've been living out of each others' pockets recently -perhaps a little too much.

"You can come if you want to," Owen shrugs, finally taking a step away and breaking their close embrace once and for all. "Just figured you'd rather be out training -I know boring meetings aren't exactly your favourite thing."

They're not, Owen is right, and George will be beyond happy to see the back of them come the end of the tournament  -even if they are representative of a leadership position he's beyond happy to hold, even if he'll have to traipse back to Tigers and sit through far worse about the club's failings.

Still, sitting behind a desk and talking over skills and setups he'd rather be practising is hardly Owen's bag either, and yet George had shown no remorse in dragging him along to his earliest meeting of the week and using him as a metaphorical crutch while their coach broke the expect news of his position on the bench. The mere memory is enough to sting.

"Yeah, you're alright," George shakes his head around an accepting smile -Owen can act blasé now, but if it was anything he or Eddie had wanted George present for, he would have said so before hand. "If us lowlies aren't needed then I'll just leave it to Mr. Captain Starting Ten."

George grins as he speaks, tone still relentlessly teasing, and he does revel in Owen's combative cackle. He'd like to think it's telling of his acceptance -it's not, it's forced. Saying the words only proves to amplify the sharp stab of a feeling he hasn't quite been able to identify, one that's plagued him at such mentions for a while.

"Might not be for much longer if I'm late," Owen says -and with Eddie's temper over tardiness, the assumption is not so wrong. He leans forward once more to place a gentle kiss in the corner of George's mouth, to run a hand through and smooth out what must be considerably tousled hair. Satisfied, he steps back and holds out the hand for George to take in his own. "Come on."

Although they part mandatorily as soon as they're through the hotel room door, the brief contact is enough to leave George set and ready for the day.

They part ways where their directions spilt and George heads towards one of the larger gyms where he knows at least the backs are accumulating this morning. Everyone is still busy talking amongst themselves as he enters, his lateness unnoticed by coaches and staff who haven't yet readied themselves. They're heading to Cardiff tomorrow and this is the state of their preparation? George would roll his eyes and make a point of complaining, but he supposes that would only be beyond hypercritical of him.

"Alright?" He slots himself in with the main group that have gathered, makes his appearance known with the simple, open-ended greeting. He gets a few general nods of acknowledgement, most still drawn intently into Jack's apparently hilarious story about his dogs.

His eyes land pretty quickly on where Chris Ashton is staring amicably at his fellow winger -an observation steadfast becoming George's default- and he has to try his best not to scowl at the elation in his smile as he listens, the bright bellowing of his laughter above the rest. The stare is hardly hidden, George knows, is hardly actually trying to hide it, and it's no surprise when Chris's eyes meet the glare that is surely intense enough to feel.

Ashton's smile drops into something softer, looking George over in a friendly acceptance to the moment of recognition between them. George grits his teeth as he returns the gesture desultorily, averting his line of vision quickly back to the main focus, Jack beginning the delivery of his punch line just in time to cover George's embarrassment at being caught.     

"Take a morning nap, did we?" Ben asks from beside him, voice seemingly dropped low enough so as not to project across the group, still as loud as ever while somehow managing to avoid attention. George is just glad for the distraction.

"No," He frowns at the scrumhalf's smirk, refusing to pay him any kind of close attention as he instead continues to comply with the group's focus on Jack. This time George's peripherals only vaguely observe over the object of his anxieties, checking on the continued aversion of his attention.

"Sure," Ben continues despite George's attempts to deter him, voice drawling, and George doesn't need to look at him to see the smirk. "What've you done here?"

At the feel of fingers in his hair, George flinches, twisting away and batting at the offending hand. The sudden and exaggerated movement seems to draw a heeding from the others that had so far been avoided, Jack's story dwindling to an end as the group seek a new source of entertainment. George bites his lip, Ben laughing in thorough enjoyment.

"Your hair's sticking up at all angles, mate," he goes on. "Didn't you have a second to whack some gel in it in all that time it took you to get down here."

"I was busy," George grumbles, ignoring the laughter of their observers in favour of a failing attempt to keep the fluster from his face. Damn Owen for this -damn his lazy failings to amend his work.

"Oh yeah, I forgot about your obsessive packing regime," Ben teases, clearly beaming under all the attention, projecting to the audience. "Gotta be done at least a day in advance."

"Yeah, yeah," George brushes off the public depiction of his habits with as little bother as he can, embarrassment and panic seeping in. He looks pointedly away from Henry where he's stood with a slightly dejected looking Jack. His roommate knows full well the state of his luggage, knows that George has spent little to no time packing it -spends little time in their room at all.

"You can borrow some of my gel if you need, Fordy," Henry pipes up with a shy quietness at the public declaration. For a second George feels a sinking dread at the sound of his voice, but the centre seems put off from saying anything further, ducking his head to mutter something to the winger next to him as the pair continue to converse privately.

"Thanks mate," George replies out of mere politeness, smiling as Henry pauses to do so too before returning to his muted discussion.

"Seriously, what have you been doing?" Ben's voice returns to its -less than quiet- normal tone, inquiries still invasive as ever, as the gathering begins to disperse into smaller clusters after the small Leicester domestic appears to dry up. George takes a second to watch as Ashton muscles his way into the Exeter conversation before he convinces himself to let it go for now. Owen isn't here, there's nothing to watch. 

The fingers are still musing incessantly with the strands at the crown of George's head and it grounds him back down enough to slap them away once more, feeling for the damage himself.

"You're so annoying," George chides in place of any dignified response, the discipline coming out whinier than he ought to be proud of. He can feel what Ben means, his short hair a total mess where he'd lost any time to style it to the distraction of Owen's lips, where it had been dishevelled by wall and wondering hands alike. "I haven't been doing anything," he lies.

"Right," Ben remarks and there's that look all over again, eyes squinting in scrutiny as George palms vainly at the back of his own head, the mess refusing to settle. He rolls his eyes as Ben regards him curiously, but is saved from any further interrogation as their coaches finally manage to find their feet and start the session.

They're sectioned off for the skills session, wingers making their way outside to work on speed and endurance while the rest of them stay put for handling. George watches as Ashton throws an arm around Jack's shoulder, steering the two of them towards Jonny as Henry steps away. He doesn't miss the slight limp, the lopsidedness of the balance of Ashton's weight and he cocks his head, turning to pay full attention as the wingers make their way past the remaining backs, interest piqued.

So pulled is his focus, that he fails to notice as Ben sidles in closer beside him. "Stop checking Jonny out and let's get on with this, yeah?" He flicks at George's cheek as he speaks, sound and affliction alike making him jump half out of his skin. A hand flies to his chest, body resettling in the direction of the intrusion as his other arm shoots out to shove at Ben's shoulder, no restraint applied to the action. The force has Ben stumbling backwards, laughter as rife as ever.

"Shut up," George hisses, voice hushed. For once Ben hadn't been so loudly uncensored, but with the gathering of their teammates in close quarters, at least half well within earshot, George would rather any allusions to the subject not be broached at all.

"Sorry, sorry," Ben concedes, hands waving in surrender even as he smiles, as wickedly teasing as ever. George could almost think he means it -almost. "Just figured your boyfriend wouldn't want you checking out other blokes."

The sarcastically nonchalant shrug is only partly begotten before George is attacking the offending shoulders with shoves once more, half minded to plaster a hand over Ben's mouth where he cackles wildly, thrilled by the display of indignation.

"What the hell did I miss?" George hears from behind him, too busy in his battery to have noticed the approach -he casts a look over his shoulder, arms ceasing.

Owen is stood, arms crossed in his smiling bemusement, legs at shoulder width in a usual display of masculine prowess. With one last push to his victim, George lets Ben scurry away from the assault, still laughing as he joins the circle forming a short way off in preparation for coordination drills both he and Owen really ought to be undertaking as well.

It can wait another moment, George thinks, turning fully to take in his newly afforded view.

"Oh nothing," George sighs in answer to Owen's earlier question, mockingly blasé as he rolls his eyes at the reality. Owen steps in another notch, eyebrows furrowed in question and George yearns to reach out across the remaining appropriate distance between them -can't, knows he can't. "Just Ben trying to out me to half the squad as usual."

"Nothing new there, then," Owen offers jokingly although his voice is hushed to levels George wishes certain others were able to imitate. His expression slackens into something softly encouraging, understanding.

"It's gotten really bad since I told Jonny," George admits, equally quiet where he's angled cautiously into Owen, tone quickly turning the light-hearted interaction serious.

"He's probably just excited that he's finally got someone else who knows -that he can finally talk about it" Owen presumes. "You know how much of a gossip he is -this is just a decade worth of holding back and keeping your secret finally opening up. I'm sure he'll calm down soon."

"He's always known that you know, though," George points out hurriedly, becoming all too aware of their absence from drills happening around them. It's not uncommon for the two of them to remain separate for a while, talking over specifics -this isn't exactly 'specifics', though, and George can feel it setting him on edge.

"True," Owen tips his head, considering the point. "It's not like I was ever going to side with him if he tried teasing you, though," his mouth quirks a little in the corners at the implication, "now he's got back up."

"I suppose," George shakes his head, turning away to face the group training and deciding they've pushed the boundaries of how long they can stay away far enough. Taking a couple of minute steps, Owen takes the hint and they fall into a slow rhythm together as they approach.

"Maybe talk to him if he does it again?" Owen suggests as a final point.

"Yeah," George agrees vaguely as they reach the others, coaches just setting up for a new drill.

Their shoulders bump where they're close enough for a final moment before Owen crosses over the circle, slotting into  the only other remaining space. Sharing in one last smile, George tunes into the instructions being explained, emancipated from wondering thought as his mindset settles, readies himself as a ball is thrown his way.

~~~~~

It's late into the afternoon by the time George manages to find another moment to relax -before any of them do. Most of the team designate themselves into one of the more popular players' longue, larger with seating well equipped for expansive gatherings. After spending the morning separated into forwards and backs, there's a definite sense of reunification, helped on by the rehearsal of game scenarios after lunch. George didn't think he could be so happy to be off the field, but now, showered and fresh with the healthy buzz of excited team unity, this is a good place to be.

Not that his feeling that way has anything to do with the stretch of Owen's arm across the back of the sofa, the cushion of his bicep behind George's neck. Nothing at all.

Grinning at the frustrated shock adorning Ben's face at his slow, torturous reveal, George lays firmly the 'draw four' Uno card he'd been savouring just for this moment, this reaction. He giggles hard at the exasperated sigh as Ben agitatedly retrieves the required cards from the deck, beams at Jamie and Elliot's chorused hollers of delighted praise, his club mate's near chances of winning now thoroughly squandered.

"You're going to pay for that," Ben mutters, moodily shaking his head as Jonny announces his last card. Of course now he'd choose to speak in lowered tones.

"Nope," George glimmers happily as he sinks back into his seat, neck tipping back until it brushes with the firmness of flesh and muscle behind him. "I think you'll find that was payback of my own."

He doesn't have much time to enjoy Ben's mystified expression, raucous breaking out as Jamie seals his second win. At his shoulder, he feels the tickle of fingers drumming for his attention and he turns his head just a fraction to share in the amused smile Owen is searching for.  

"You sure you don't want me to deal you in this time, Faz?" Jamie asks, gathering the rest of the cards in for a reshuffle. George shifts as the weight of focus is suddenly turned to their small portion of the sofa, unconsciously leaning away from their close proximity to regard Owen the same as everyone else, awaiting response.

"Nah, you're alright," Owen drawls, tone slow and movements equally languid as he stretches back into the corner, the move enhancing his distance from George further. George has to catch himself from staring, his mouth clamping closed as he flits his eyes away from the exaggerated expanse of Owen's chest. "I'll just team up with Fordy."

At his inclusion, George reverts his gaze from the ground, relieved to see that Owen has finished in his display. Still admirable, although maybe now George won't get lost in it.

"That's hardly fair," Ben complains, loud in his distain and drawing George fully out of his encapsulation. "If you're teaming up we should all team up -level playing field and all that. Jonny?"

"I'm alright, mate," Jonny laughs, shaking his head. "You're just bitter that you keep losing."

"Yeah it's not exactly a strategic game, Len," George joins, resettling into his environment. "I don't know what advantage you think we're gaining."

Ben grumbles as he's chuckled at -the good-natured competitiveness they've had going was never going to last long between professional athletes.

"Alright," Jamie holts his hands as he ceases to shuffle, bringing the cards into one solid block and knocking the butt of them against the table, noise resounding. "So everyone's in? Except for Faz?" A series of nods and small hums of confirmation circulate their little group. "Chris?" George glances up at the name, eyebrows pinching in immediate question. "You fancy a game, mate?"

Glancing just to the side over his shoulder, Jamie addresses the winger, paused now where George presumes he had been on his way past. There's a definite hunch in his shoulders and, although he still stares pointedly ahead, George can see the clench of his jaw. Beside him, Owen's side holds rigid where his breath seems to stop for a second, relaxing again before George has the chance to try and alleviate his sudden tension. Instead he keeps his eyes fixed, narrowed slightly, studying.

"No, you're alright," Ashton replies flatly after a pause that had beat on just a moment too long. He turns to offer the group a small apologetic smile, but his lips are drawn tight and thin, obviously forced, and George doesn't think he imagines the way his eyes linger when they pass his and Owen's way before he moves off once more.

There's quiet between them for a beat longer in the wake of the awkward interaction, air still feeling thick every moment he may still be in earshot. Eventually, Elliot whistles lowly, asking rhetorically, "what's up with him?"

"Beats me," Jamie shrugs, seemingly unfazed as he starts to deal out the new hands. George can't quiet relax so simply, however, shifting as he stares after the winger, still walking away.

And -yeah, there's definitely a limp now, unrestrained -obvious for anyone to see.

"Apparently he's been ruled out for Saturday," Jonny pipes. Behind him, George feels Owen's bicep flex. 

"Really?" Elliot exclaims, clear shock amidst excitement at the revelation of new gossip. Jonny nods.

"Do you, um-" Owen coughs, voice obviously catching in his throat as he leans forward to speak. George turns, considering the waver in his tone inquisitively, frown deepening until Owen regards him from the corners of his eyes. Simply, he shakes his head, continues. "Do you know why?"

"I'm guessing it's because of his leg," Jonny answers, nodding his head to where Ashton is just reaching the fringes of one of the larger groups, every step countered heavily by one side of his body. "I don't know, though. Eddie came to speak to him after our skills session this morning and that's just what Jack said he overheard."

George rolls his eyes at the insufficiency of the evidence, at how insouciantly rumours form in these camps.

"Poor lad," Ben offers sympathetically, but his eyes are glinting where they stare, all three sat like vultures to any further information Jonny has to offer. It's easy enough for George to ignore, though, easy enough to ignore the churn in his stomach at the empathy offered to the winger by Ben. He knows there's an attentiveness required of him now.

There's still a definite hunch in Owen's shoulders, George can feel the tension steadily increasing in its accumulation with the shift against his own. His arm is drawn forward with the effort, lost of the support of the back of the sofa and beginning to rest more heavily between the cushions and George's upper back. Something is weighing on his mind, George can tell, can tell he'll need to drag him away and find out exactly what at some point. As it is, though, they barely have time left before dinner -not enough to pay this the mind he's certain it will need.

Dropping a hand to Owen's thigh, he uses it as leverage to push himself forwards, reaching out to take his dealt hand of cards. Leaning back, he lets the hold linger, squeezing his reassurance as he settles in and tucks himself just that little bit closer into Owen's open posture. It's a position no less tactile than they've been known -seen- to frequent before now, far less intimate than something George would unthinkingly throw himself into with Ben or Jonny. Sure, it's cautious -George is beginning to think that his hyperawareness at erring on that side may have no end- but it's enough to sate Owen for now.

Still, for good measure George turns his head as he arranges the cards for them both to see clearly, cements his silent promise with a small smile that is eagerly, if grimly, returned.

~~~~~

As soon as he's finished with his dinner, George moves to leave, his patience in dealing with Ben and Jonny's endless energy worn thin to its bone. Standing, he dutifully announces his intention to turn in, clipping Ben around his ear at the indecent waggle of eyebrows he gets in response. Catching Owen's eye across the table as he leaves, George nods to impart the true resolve of his departure and waits the reasonable time it takes for him to join just outside the dining room door.

"Alright?" He asks at the small smile he gets in greeting.

Owen nods, just as sombrely quiet as he had been for the duration of the meal.

"Your room?" George asks, knowing that now isn't the moment or the place to push, that they have all the privacy in the world just a short distance away.

Again, Owen nods, a silent agreement this time and they make off in the direction of the stairs, the short trip equally wordless.

"Alright?" George asks again once they reach Owen's hotel room, shutting the door behind them as Owen walks a few paces ahead towards the bed. With the rest of the world finally sealed off, he huffs an exaggerated sigh -the most sound George has heard him make for far too prolonged a time frame- and flops down unceremoniously onto the mattress.

"Long day," Owen supplies, hauling his legs up onto the bed and swinging round until he's lying flat on his back. George tuts as he approaches, perching down beside Owen's feet as he sets about untying the laces of his trainers, conscious of the white sheets they're potentially marring.

"You had one meeting," he pulls the first shoe free, placing it neatly at the foot of the frame. "And two training sessions," he pinches Owen's big toe a little too hard if the way he flinches is anything to go by. "We've had longer. What's up?"

Owen shrugs and George sighs, tugging on the bow tying the other trainer with less tentative delicacy than he'd exercised before, one harsh pull freeing Owen's foot from its confines. The stubbornness is starting to get annoying.

"Tell me," George insists, dropping Owen's shoe beside the other and toeing off his own. "Is it Ashton? About him being dropped?"

Drawing in a deep breath, Owen huffs once more, and George is just starting to teeter on the edge of agitation when he shifts, rolling onto his side. "Come here," Owen directs, patting the top of the duvet beside him and beckoning George over from where he sits with a small cock of his head. It doesn't take another moment for George to comply, tucking his legs in underneath himself to crawl into the space, lying on his own side with his head nestling into Owen's pillow, their faces mere inches apart. "I told Eddie today," Owen tells him once he's settled in place.

"Okay," George encourages, needing more information before he can pass any comment, make any assumptions.

"That wasn't -the meeting this morning, it wasn't about that," Owen goes on in his explanation. "But -well obviously I've been meaning to tell him all week,  but kept putting it off. It just seemed like as good a time as ever, so I just... did."

"Okay," George reiterates, still not feeling overly well versed with knowledge after Owen's impartment. "You just told him you'd heard stuff about Ashton or you told him you're bi?"

"Both," Owen tells him, voice a little shaky as he speaks. It's a far cry from the arrogantly confident Owen George has seen remark less than implicative statements regarding his sexuality to groups populated by far more than just one coach. George lets his arm wrap around the slip of skin revealed at Owen's waist from the ride of his t-shirt, worried.

"Was he good, or?" He lets the question hang without asking it, leaving it to Owen to fill in any gaps he needs.

"Yeah, yeah," Owen shakes his head as best he can where it's pressed into the pillow, his fringe tickling George's forehead where the movement is made so near in their proximity. "I mean, he kind of has to be, doesn't he? Or at least say that he is. So I don't _really_ know what it says about him, but his reaction seemed genuine. To be honest he didn't really seem all that surprised, so I figured he'd probably heard something about it already -if one of the lads had said something or he'd heard something I said."  

"Or it's just Eddie's typical stoicism -nothing can break that mask," George jokes, frowning at the shakiness in Owen's responding laugh. Fingers tapping just above Owen's waistband, he asks, "you okay?"

"Yeah," Owen replies, the pitch of his voice about a third of an octave too high to quite be believable. George lets his index finger wonder in random patterns, softly encouraging him onwards. "I guess, just-" he shakes his head, smiling commendably. "I know I'm flippant about it -like, I know I don't make a point of hiding anything and I make some pretty blatant comments sometimes- but I haven't actually _come out_ to anyone since, well, since Ben asked me about it. And that was, what, back when you first joined the squad? I dunno, it's just not something I particularly enjoy."

"I don't think it's something anyone particularly enjoys," George consoles, palm flattening out so he can slide his hand further up the plane of Owen's back, slipping up beneath his top. "If it makes you feel any better, until very recently I hadn't come out to anyone since Ben either -and that was a hell of a lot longer ago than when I first joined England."

"What is it about him, hey?" Owen huffs a short laugh, smile finally lightening into something credible. "Does he have some kind of mystical aura that makes people desperate to come out to him?"

"No," George snorts at the notion. "He's just a nosy bastard with no boundaries and not enough shame to stop himself outright asking."

"Sounds about right actually," Owen grins and George can't help the way he reflexively returns it.

Appealed to by the upward quirk that's finally found its way to Owen's lips, the sound of the laughter ringing in his throat, George leans forward.

"What was that for?" Owen asks as they retreat only centimetres from the kiss, grin softening at the edges into something far fonder.

"Nothing," George shrugs, brushing his lips with Owen's once more, tongue darting out to graze his bottom lip in a mockery of the chasteness. "Just -you feeling better?"

"Yeah," Owen replies simply, voice cushioned with affection. George doesn't miss the quiver that stubbornly remains, though, and he pulls back to regard him incredulously.

"Are you sure about that?" He demands, tone light but interrogatory nonetheless.

"There was," Owen starts, seeming to lose his words before he can form them. It's another second before he resets, tries again. "I said about the Ashton stuff as well -told Eddie the things he's supposed to have said about me and all that jazz," George nods, glad Owen is making the steps to broach the subject himself, not wanting to push it any further than he has in the last couple of weeks. "And now all of a sudden he's ruled out of the match day squad?"

"Because of his leg," George points out slowly. He can see what Owen is getting at, can see that it's almost a  little too coincidental not to make the leap, but he cynically can't see it being the case -as much as part of him bitterly hopes it to be so.

"So say," Owen dismisses blithely.

"He is definitely limping, Owen," George tries, although he's not quite sure what he's defending. Reconsidering, he adjusts his angle. "But if it is _that_ , is that really so bad? Like, does he not deserve it in a way? Even if he doesn't really know he's being punished, it's a punishment none the less."

George is beyond aware of the futility of that line of thinking, knows full well that it's fuelled by nothing more than his own desire for retribution.  

"No, no, that's not -well, that's not really what I was getting at," Owen stumbles and George's brow draws into a pinch, waiting for an explanation to a point he can't manage to decipher. "Just -do you think, if that _was_ case, would it only be because I'm bi? Because it's me he's apparently said things about?"

"Owen -what?" George is only feeling more confused by the second. "I don't understand."

"I -do you think Eddie would've done the same if someone else had gone to talk to him?" Owen puts frankly, finally reunited with coherency. "Do you think it would be the same if he didn't know there was anyone less than straight on the team?"

" _I_ think Eddie ruled him out because he's injured his leg," George tells him, straightforward. And he does -he doesn't want to get lost in hypotheticals when none of it can lead them to any probable reality beyond the one that exists. "But," he has to offer some sense of compliance, however small. "Maybe not. We just can't know, though, can we?"

"No, I guess not," Owen grumbles and drops his neck down until he can meet George with a small kiss, an assurance that there's no real disagreement. Still, George can't help feeling guilty in his dismal.

"Eddie is pretty clear on how he feels about team unity," George lets himself concede, unwilling to furnish the point too thoroughly. "I think he'd want to make sure no one felt uncomfortable. And let's be fair, whether he knows it by confirmation or not there's always going to be guys on the team who aren't straight -even the two of us is less than probability."

Owen laughs. "And what do you reckon the probability is of the two of us together?" He jokes. The words are a little muddled in their syntax, but the implications ring true enough.

It's probably the perfect moment for George to ask for an answer to what's been beginning to really play on his mind, ask exactly the meaning behind Owen's words instead of mindlessly inferring contextual definitions. Instead, he only laughs along.

He's glad Owen chooses that moment to kiss him, lets himself sink into the distraction, rinsing it for everything it's worth. His hand at Owen's back increases steadily in its pressure until compliance to his demand is met, shunting his own hips forward as to meet in the middle. The move has him slipping in his position slightly where he's edged down to align their hips and it forces his neck to tilt up at an uncomfortable angle just to keep the kiss connected. Still, the payoff is efficacious and George smirks into the kiss as he feels Owen's interest piquing in the suffocating press of their groins. Lifting a leg over Owen's thigh, George forces his weight with his remaining leverage on the mattress until he has them both rolling. Settling over Owen's lap once he has him lying flat, George sits back from the kiss to watch the bliss shrouding over hazed features, nestling his arse down further just to feel the responding twitch beneath it.

Even though Owen is in no state to successfully observe, George still casts an overdramatized look to where the clock is wearing on late, sighing heavily, put on in his devilish act. Leaning down he leaves another kiss over Owen's lips, letting himself get caught by the tongue that delves into his mouth for a second before pulling back an inch.

"I should really go," he breathes, lifting his hips a fraction as though he's going to move to stand -as if he ever would.

Hands fly to his hips in an instant, pulling him back down hard. "No," Owen growls, no margin for playfulness as he holds George in a bruising grip. "No you shouldn't."

"Sladey will be worried about me," George whispers, teasingly contrary, although making no move to fight the grasp he's held in. "I bet he's on the edge of figuring things out the amount I've been staying here."

"Let him worry," Owen insists, one hand sliding up from George's hips until it reaches the bounds of its extension, hauling him down by the back of his neck. "Let him figure it out -I don't care."

And -George will text Henry later, or he won't; not that it had ever been a thought beyond the titillation it had become. Maybe he really is on the edge of figure them out, as flippant a comment as it had been -Ben definitely is if all the looks are anything to go by.  

George grinds down into Owen's hips once more, tongue darting into the slackening of his jaw that the responding gasp leaves.

No, he thinks, he really couldn't care less.

~~~~~

Time whirls by in a blur in the lead up to the match. One moment they're being bundled onto the team bus for the long trip over to Cardiff, and the next thing George knows Captain's Run and all the media hassles that come along with it are done with and he's wrapped up on the sidelines of the Principality pitch watching a match that goes -well, a match that goes.

The first half blows by, and although they're ahead at the break, although Tom Curry's try is nothing to be snuffed at, George can feel the frustration radiating off the team as they trudge into the changing room at halftime, his eyes drawing immediately to the hunch of Owen's shoulders. This hasn't been a touch on their best display so far, holds nothing on what they've shown this team is capable -on what George longs to show _he_ is capable of.

They gather to listen to Eddie's speech, and George knows the way he studies Owen must be obvious -knows that at least Ben notices the way he watches Owen throughout his own team talk, the way he wraps his arm around him in the last moment huddle. But Owen is the one offering all the inspiration here, all the support, and this is all George has to offer back  -he knows too well how much it is needed.

All hope is alive and strong as the team make their way back out for the second half, determination pumping even where George sits and watches. It lasts all of ten minutes before things begin to slips away.

It's just a couple of penalties at first, nothing but pitiful schoolboy errors on their own behalf, enough to leave George wincing, but not enough to drag Wales ahead, not quite enough to draw them level. But then their defences are slipping, and slipping further until the try that Wales have been threatening all game finally breaks through their net.

By this point, George is on his feet, up off the bench and pacing, waiting for the call. He doesn't care about what arrogant insinuations his agitated movements may portray -one look at Owen, at damn near the whole team, the way their heads hang low as they reset for the restart, and George knows he needs to get out there, _wants_ it more than he thinks he ever has.

It's a call that never comes, though. Not in all the ten minutes it takes for the last scraps of their defences to fall utterly to pieces, nor in the few short moments before the scrum that all but seals their fate; not in the final few painstaking minutes before they're to face the misery of defeat. And at the final whistle George is left standing, cold and clean, on the sideline of a roofed Principality as Calon Lan rings like a knife twisting in his ears.

It's over. No more minutes to play. No more game for him to become a part of

He saunters dutifully onto the pitch to shake the hands of players he hadn't had the chance to oppose, follows teammates back into the changing room where he slumps against his section of the wooden bench to listen as coaches talk them down. The frustration that had been growing all match, the agitation from the torture of watching so helplessly from the sidelines, is starting to settle in with the alleviation of such a focused pressure. Now, as things slow to a pace that is finally breathable, George can't help the way he falls prey to his dejection.

He hadn't been wanted out there -hadn't been needed. There was nothing anyone thought he could offer.

Watching as the team begin to break apart, languid as they move either to pack up kitbags or strip down for showers, George makes a point of searching Owen out. But he's already walking away from his booth, changed into a more respectably clean set of promotional kit and traipsing behind Eddie as they make off for the press conference that George had almost let himself forget about in his desired search.

George tracks Owen as he moves, wincing as he takes in the unrelenting hunch of his shoulders, the tension there now forcing them up close to his ears. As selfish as he is in his hunger for comfort, George knows how much this match had meant, how much every damn match of this tournament means, haunted by the abyss of last year's desolation. It must have been agonising to be out on that pitch tonight, he _knows,_ knows full well what Owen must be feeling, what he must need. And yet he can't share in that pain, a pain that maybe he ought to be thankful to have been sheltered from. He's not.

He pauses when Owen catches his eye, offers him the grimmest of smiles that looks as though it could splinter at any moment. George can't quite bring himself to return it, merely nods his acknowledgement. Every unexercised bone in his body aches with the exertion of the movement.

The rest of the evening seems to pass by in slow motion. They don't leave the stadium for what feels like hours, the press required stretching out through long interviews and internal promotion. George isn't needed for a vast majority, or at least isn't sought; no doubt his absence from game time will face opinion and ridicule with or without his comment.

Some spirits are reignited at the post-match meal, many of the team happy to sink into conversation revolved around analysis with their more than cheerful Welsh counterparts. There's only so much of the ridiculing banter he can subject himself to as it flies easily between Jonny and George North, however, before it has his fists clenching.

Barely five metres away he can see Owen, nodding along amicably as Liam Williams beams through whatever it is he's saying. George bites his lip -it would look odd for him to move now, before anyone else, before all meals are quite done with. But, despite his pose, there's still that damn hunch in Owen's posture, there's still the heavy weight hanging low in George's stomach -he wants, _needs_ to be closer, always as close as he can possibly be.

Decision made, he stands, probably slightly too abruptly, and mumbles through his excuses to the small audience it attracts from around his table. Jonny pats him impassively on the hip as he moves to walk away, happy to return to his debate with his opposite number without further question. George squeezes his shoulder in an offering of his own and ignores Ben's stare as he makes off towards his target.

"Alright?" He hums the greeting quietly when he reaches Owen's table, taking the seat left beside him without invitation -he doesn't care, doesn't need it.

"Alright Fordy?" George Kruis is first to ask, tone level, although not quite able to disguise his surprise. And -yeah, looking around George realises that he has entered something of a Saracens' lair, asserted himself amongst them without due consideration for what he'd been walking into. All he had seen was Owen. Owen, who's eyes are now fixed, boring into his side, questioning.

"Yeah, just-" George gesticulates wildly, hoping the flapping of his hands will hide the obvious fact that he is yet to formulate an excuse for his appearance. Under the table, Owen's hand settles over his thigh, squeezes. George thinks, speaks. "Just had to get away from Jonny being- well, you know?"

The responding chorus of laughter settles the last flickers of panic and George slips his own hand down under the table, holds his palm over Owen's knuckles.

"Congrats on the win," he directs to Liam when he realises his intrusion has turned the conversation flat. He can't bring himself to say much more than that, doesn't think his own teammates would want him to. As it is, though, he'd rather pay mind to the fact of their loss than the pain of his absence from it.

"Thanks," Liam beams, smile unfaltering even as Jamie whacks him around the back of the head for his complacency. "I was just saying to the guys that it'll be good to have a couple of rematches this summer," he goes on, flicking Jamie's arm in retaliation before regarding the group slyly. "Beating the English three times in one year -that really will be a treat."

"In your dreams, Williams," Owen rolls his eyes, but George doesn't miss the tired croak in his voice -he can't wait until they can escape.

"Who cares, anyway?" Maro shrugs. "Those are just warm-up games."

There's a brief pause, a bemused bafflement becoming the faces at the table. It's the first thing that's had a shot at causing George amusement all day.

"Who cares?" Jamie asks after a moment, shocked sarcasm dripping as he lifts a hand to his chest. "What is this blasphemy, Pearl?"

"Unacceptable," Kruis agrees, shaking his head.

Beside him Owen stays quiet, turns his hand over on George's leg until their fingers can wind together.

"I'm with Maro," George offers in place of Owen's silence. "Only matters what happens at the World Cup -anything before that is just preparation."

"They're still test matches, though -the warm-up games," Liam points out, still simmering in his smugness. George frowns. "Still count."

George opens his mouth to counter, closes it when he can't find the argument. They are still test matches, and George can say whatever he wants but he knows he's still going to care the same as he does for every game he's ever played, is still going to want to throw himself all in for the win -if he's given the chance to.

And just like that his stomach is sinking all over again. _If_ he has the chance to, _if_ he's selected. In his more solidly affirmed leadership, in his defined role as a vice captain, George had just about been beginning to feel safe in his position once more, grounded and definite even from the bench. After today, after the minimal impact he'd made in dwindling minutes last week -he just doesn't know anymore.

~~~~~

Closing the door to Owen's hotel room behind him, George walks straight into the open arms waiting for him, feeling the deflation of tension against him with as much intensity as his own release. At the encouragement of the tight hold, George lets his weight sag more fully into the broad support of Owen's form, trusting his arms to be more than capable of bracing the burden. Owen leans forward in the embrace, countering George with his own weight, holding each other steady, equally.

George lets out a short groan, nothing more eloquent possibly able to depict the disillusionment which has come to define the day, and buries his face in the temporary consolation of Owen's shoulder.

He feels his head jostled, though, a nose prodding against his cheek, breath beating softly on his skin as Owen tries to nuzzle in, searching. George turns his head just barely to the side, feels his lips captured before he can complete the movement.

They take a moment and just kiss, held up by nothing more than the support of each other.

Owen's arms are wrapped securely around his torso, bent forward to accommodate George's shorter stature. The squeeze of his biceps at George's ribs is enough to restrict the expansion of his lungs, the searing kiss they're caught in preventing much air from entering as it is. It forces George to pull back, reluctance blatant as he allows Owen to follow, chasing with smaller kisses just to keep the affection alive -the affection they _need._

"I don't-" George starts, but sags in Owen's hold when he realises he doesn't have more to say. There are so many words and yet none at all -nowhere to begin.

"That was," Owen tries instead, although seems to meet the same impeding. "That was fucking horrible -awful. It was-"

Already there's a flare rising in Owen's throat, and he gives George a squeeze as he cuts himself off before it can climb too high. George wouldn't say it, but he appreciates the restraint -the last thing he needs is to get lost in angered frustrations. He's too hurt for that now, too defeated.

"I know," George returns quietly, hoping the closed acknowledgement is enough to cut the topic short. It's not. This is Owen, of course it's not.

"That second half was just- I mean, where the hell were we? Where were our defensive lines? Our discipline?" Owen vents, his voice agitated, although refrained from unhinging into anger. George doesn't have the answers to the rhetorical questions, doesn't think he wants to be asked them. "Not that the first half was all that much better. One good moment from Tom and that was all -everything we had."

It's not quite fair as a statement, the truth of it warped by frustrated opinion. They'd fought damn hard, George knows, he'd had no choice but to sit and watch as the rest of his team met their match in Wales. He squeezes his eyes closed, head swaying forward onto Owen's shoulder once more.

"It was a tough game," he croaks dutifully.

"This is just-" Owen shakes his head, his chin thumping against George's temple with the vigour of his movements. "We can't let this happen again. We can't play two decent games and then fall completely to shit again, _I_ can't let that happen again -not this year of all years."

And- it is eerily similar to last year, George hadn't realised. Hopes of the championship beginning to crumble from beneath them with the loss of the third game, away to a side they've become so used to beating. It had been an agony then, but in a World Cup year? George shudders to think, _can't_ think about that now.

"Then you won't," George can't copy Owen's incorporative pronoun, won't include himself when he's assured of nothing. "You won't let that happen again."

"But today-" George stiffens as Owen goes on, goose-bumps of aggravation prickling at the back of his neck. He doesn't want to hear about today, doesn't want to talk about it, because he knows the pain of it and he understands the pain of it, but he can't _feel_ the pain of it. Not for himself, not from the sidelines.

Owen is still speaking, but George can't hear another word, can't listen to another word.

He presses his lips to Owen's, absorbing the final syllables of his agonised speech as they peter into muffled sound amidst the white noise ringing in George's ears. His cheek still barely grazes the clavicle beneath it, Owen's neck twisting down at a distorted angle as his arms loosen in their hold to something more tender. George can't help the stab of guilt he feels as he's regarded with gentle caresses in a hold, a kiss, used only to silence.

He feels the words breathed against him before he hears them spoken. "I needed you out there today."

And -no. George can't hear that -won't.

"Please," George asserts on with the kiss, desperate not to lose it now, with the loose threads still holding him together straining fragilely under the weight of Owen's words. "Please don't."

"I did, Georgie," Owen whispers despite George's protest. "I really-"

"Don't," George snaps the interruption, the kiss, comfort, everything inside him finally shattering. "Please just don't, Owen."

Swaying forward, his forehead collides with Owen's throat, the crown of his head tucking in beneath his chin. There's a burning prickling behind his eyes that he doesn't want Owen to see -can't subject him to. He doesn't need the burden of George's heartache on top of his own, not when George is too inadequate to find the strength to return the support.

"George -what?" His hiding in the front of Owen's neck is drawn away slight as Owen pulls back to take him in questioningly. George shakes his head, dropping down further until he meets the solidity of Owen's chest, buries himself there.

"Sorry, I'm sorry," George coughs around the lump forming in his throat.

"Georgie?" Owen tries again, but George doesn't think he can face the realities of his own selfish necessities.

"I can't-" he blinks rapidly, forces himself away from his scarcest haven until he can look up, look Owen in the eye. "You don't need this," he explains. "I should go."

"What?" Owen asks, brow pinching in confusion above eyes that blow wide as George steps away, breaking their embrace. "No-" he argues, reaching out as George moves to turn, grabbing onto his wrist to keep him in place. "George, what's going on? Don't- please don't go."

George pauses. He can feel the slick of perspiration in Owen's grip around him, focuses on the pulse in the tip of his thumb, raised to a rhythm palpitating faster than its usual steady beat. Owen needs him.

Owen needs him and he can't. In his desolation, he _can't._

For the first time, he considers his discernment in all this, considers whether he's fanaticised so deeply into his own desires that he'd lost all abilities for pragmatic judgement. For the first time, he considers if this is, any of it, is really a good idea. Whatever _this_ is supposed to be -because he still doesn't have damn clue. The thought makes his chest ache more than any game ever could, more than any abandonment to the bench.

The grip of Owen's hand slips down further. George lets it, doesn't move to pull away, even if he's starting to think that maybe, _maybe_ he really should. Behind him, he feels their fingers entwine.

"Please don't go, Georgie."  

**Author's Note:**

> I've been wanting to write something like this for a while, less initially structured and planned than I'm usually stringent about -just seeing where the season takes us.  
> Always love to hear from you.


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